The Whore
by SmokeMyCancer
Summary: IanMick AU. Mickey is a hitman who a waiter hires to kill a pimp. They end up in a twisted relationship that makes Mickey question his sexuality. ON HOLD SORRY
1. Coffee

**A/N: K SO REVISED TO SUITE THE CHANGES TO MY IDEA. I apologize if anyone is confused. **

**Sorry, I didn't bother with much of a summary. Just kind of figured I'd throw people right into it. This idea has been circling my head since I watched Martin Scorsese's _Taxi Driver _again. Obviously, this one's AU.**

**Some deets real quick: Mickey's 25 in this one. Ian's a lot younger. I'm picturing him as maybe 17. ****Lots of things are different. Certain characters aren't even going to be in it, certain unexpected ones are going to be in it a lot.**

**Basically, this is more like an original idea, but using the Shameless characters. Hope you'll like it, whoever's reading this!**

The Whore

Chapter One: Coffee

She sat there yammering on about work, like Mickey cared or was even actually listening. Sat there talking with her hands, voice too loud and obnoxious for Mickey's comfort. Made animated faces and spoke while chewing her food. If he was being honest, Mickey barely remembered the bitch's name, much less the company she worked for. Much less how she and he had even ended up in bed together the night before. Probably the latter had more to do with Mickey drinking himself to death lately over his inner turmoil. Also his paying little attention to much of anything besides getting his dick wet. And this lady seemed like the type to fuck just about anyone who was willing. So at least he'd solved one mystery.

"Are you even listening?" the woman asked, breathy, laughing as if this was a friendly conversation. She cupped her cheek and batted her lashes at Mickey from across the booth. Coffee in one hand and a dab of creamer cleaving to the crook of her pale, thin lips.

Finally Mickey took a good look at his present company. Pulled himself from lala land. He stared at the creamer, unconsciously licking the corner of his own mouth. He wished she would rid herself of the spot. It was irking him. The woman, whose name was, he was almost sure, Katelyn, smiled at Mickey. He guessed she was pretty. He could have done worse. She kept blowing at a stray blonde lock in front of her left eye. Finally she licked away the creamer. Her skin almost mirrored Mickey's in translucency under the cafe's florescent lighting. Except Mickey was paler. His mother had always referred to him as Dracula when he'd been a child. Katelyn or whatever had some color on her cheeks.

"Yeah," Mickey lied, and then took a bite of his eggs. Really he just wanted to finish his breakfast and be done with this. But he'd play along for now because this girl looked the type to cause a scene.

So she continued. Talking. Her voice was annoying. So was her train of thought. Mickey tried to drawn her out by chewing on the ice in his morning coffee. He hated hot coffee. Even though the taste was kind of the same. Cold was somehow better. When the ice didn't do the trick, Mickey shifted a bit on his end of the booth, trying hard to eves drop on the conversation of the two people behind him. His eyes trained hard on Katelyn's face, feigning mild interest. Mickey had no idea what she'd even said. Not really. Something about a promotion. He smirked to himself, which probably came across to the woman as him being impressed with whatever she was on about. Really he was just thinking that Katelyn had probably sucked a lot of dick for that promotion. She looked the type. Mickey hoped he'd used protection.

Behind Mickey sat a tall, agile looking middle aged man. Probably around forty or so years old. Close to fifty, maybe. Mickey had spotted him almost immediately when Katelyn all but shoved him into this shithole for the morning after breakfast. Which Mickey never fucking partook in. This had been a total misfortune on his behalf. And a first in all of his years of fucking random women once an then never again. Never twice with the same one. Before moving from his home town in Detroit, Michigan, Mickey was pretty sure he'd probably fucked at least half of the female population in his high school and neighborhood. And more outside of that. Here in Chicago, after only barely a month, Mickey had managed to fuck only one and look where it had gotten him. And he hadn't even enjoyed it. Not really. But then, Mickey rarely did enjoy sex. Sometimes, almost, but never fully. That's probably why he kept chasing tail. Hoping that something would just fucking click already. He was growing tired of trying. Had been getting that way since hitting puberty.

"So what do you think?" Katelyn or whatever asked, patiently sipping her coffee and staring at Mickey with wide eyes.

His attention was pulled instantly from the man's lowered voice behind him. Mickey blinked at Katelyn, taking one last slurp of his drained iced-coffee. Mickey had plenty of practice with bullshitting women. Throughout childhood and teenage years, before the car crash, before dying, Mickey's sister Mandy had never fucking shut up. Now he yearned to hear the twat go on about what guy had screwed her over and broken her heart. And his mother, the reason Mickey wouldn't hear Mandy's voice again, had also been a terrible rambler. So Mickey didn't even hesitate, he sniffed hard once and shrugged at Katelyn, saying, "I think you probably already know. You're just fishing." That one hadn't fail him in years.

Katelyn blinked back at Mickey. She sat upright and worried her bottom lip, deep in thought. Finally she looked down at her plate of food she's hardly touched. "Maybe you're right," she sighed. And then she was off again. Talking.

Mickey rolled his eyes when he thought she wouldn't notice. Went back to listening in on the conversation behind him. When he'd first walked in, the man had been alone. Mickey couldn't see who the guy was talking down to, but kind of figured whoever it was really ought to just spit in the man's eye. Some pretty hateful things were being said. Some very degrading, loathsome things. The threats and insults were hard to make out because of the tone of voice and amount of muffling, like the guys was covering his mouth as he blessed out whoever his companion was. The companion never spoke. Not once.

Having been so engrossed in trying to appear interested at the same time he fought to hear a conversation that was none of his business, Mickey jumped a little as the waiter's hand smacked the receipt down in front of him. Clearing his throat, Mickey glanced at the teen-aged boy. The kid smiled down, asked if everything had been okay. At the same time Katelyn nodded, grinning tight and polite, Mickey licked his teeth loudly and told the redhead, walking freckle everything had sucked. Even the coffee. Taken aback, the waiter apologized and walked away awkwardly. Katelyn just stared at Mickey, mouth agape an brow knitted.

"That was fucking rude," she said matter-of-fact, leaning forward so that her boobs squished against the table.

Mickey shrugged, picking his back, corner teeth with his tongue. He reached beside of himself and grabbed at his heavy green coat. Putting it on, he gave Katelyn one more glance and began standing. "Whatever," he muttered, straightening out his clothes. He dug through the coat pocket as he said this, then tossed down his half of the check. "You can cover your share," he said. "Hope I don't see you around, Katelyn."

She stared at him, furious. "It's Karen, you prick!" she yelled after him as Mickey made his way toward the door.

Mickey gave one glance beside of him as he began leaving. Looked briefly at the pair who sat behind his booth. His eyes fluttered across the person Mickey had been picturing as a middle aged, heavyset, whore in ragged clothes. Instead he saw a fairly young, fairly pretty black girl with mascara running down her face. Hair a tuft of brown and bleached blonde curls. Dark bruises all over her morose face. Too many piercings. Seemingly tall and fairly thin, wearing a pink sweat-suit. The girl and the middle aged man were staring, the obvious prostitute at Mickey, the older man looked backward, at Karen-not-Katelyn. Quickly, Mickey pulled his eyes away and walked out the door.


	2. Dial Tone

**A/N: Getting to know a bit about Mickey's psyche in this chapter. Get ready, because you're gonna see a side of him that's crazier than a shit-house rat.**

**Also, I think the Black Keys are forever what I'll listen to while I write. So if you'd like to listen to the song making me tick through this one, check it out. It's_ Too Afraid to Love You_ by, of course, The Black Keys. **

Chapter Two: Dial Tone

Two things Mickey noticed right off the bat since moving to Chicago: the people were a lot friendlier than in Detroit, and almost everyone in the neighborhood he'd moved knew one another. Both strange and foreign concepts to Mickey. He disliked both facts. Together that was a dangerous recipe for a man in his profession. Eventually someone would ask too many questions, stick their nose too far into Mickey's business all on account of being neighborly. The people in his apartment complex fucking gossiped like queens. Which was why he was skipping out on his current lease and was now finding some place to stay in a slightly dumpier, seeder side of the city. He figured if people were going to get to know him, the persons may as well be the type to not turn him in to the police, should they start suspecting what he did for a living. Unfortunately, he had used most of the money from his last hit to get his former place, and had only a few hundreds floating in his pocket. Hardly enough to live anywhere. Especially given that Mickey had now given up on the idea of having any sort of permanent residence. Now he had his eye set on living in hotels until he tired of Chicago. But he would need that money. Mickey had no clue when his next job would be, and the money he had so stupidly paid to have an actual place of his own was a necessity to pay up the hotel he'd picked in advance. Knowing this, Mickey ventured into a local gym and rented out a locker. He stuffed his only bag into it and then left. Headed back to his previous apartment's office to get back his money. By force, naturally.

It was almost lunchtime, which meant only the douchebag of a landlord was hanging around the office. Mickey walked in, the bell giving away his entrance. Another aspect Mickey loathed.

During his walk over, the sky had opened up and poured snow all over him. Mickey shook himself, wet shoes squeaking across the linoleum as he headed down the hallway toward the main office. When he reached the door, he heard the landlord speaking with someone on the phone. Mickey exhaled, aggravated because now he was going to have to wait. Having the cops called on him was no something Mickey liked thinking about. He read over the plaque on the door. Large silver letters spelling out Mr. William Phillips. And heard lard ass bubbling over with laughter. Mickey balled up his fists, tugged his scarf looser around his neck, and licked his teeth, mulling over his options. Deciding, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a pair of gloves. He slipped them on.

Mickey loathed waiting more than most things. His father had always told Mickey he had no patience and that it would be the death of Mickey some day. So far the abusive asshole had been wrong. In fact, Mickey's impatience helped out a lot of times.

"Eh, fuck it," Mickey muttered to himself, then reached out and pushed the door open with one hand, knocking curtly with the other. Unnecessarily, given that he'd already stepped in.

Sitting in his red leather chair, Phillips spun around, round sweaty face startled, the annoyed. His body quite literally spilled from the sides of his seat. "Sir," he began, practically panting and out of breath just from speaking, "I will assist you in a moment," he continued, lisp prominent, "Please step back into the waiting area."

Mickey gave a slight grin, already looking forward to giving this rich hog a shake down. He stared at the beads of sweat pouring down the man's brow and building up above his sausage like lips. The waste of air even had a short stubbed nose. Truly fitting his place in life. He was also bald, and had few strands of blonde hair sticking up on his splotchy head. Disgusting, really. Probably had a cork tail hidden in his pants. Scratching his cheek, Mickey stepped fully in and closed the door behind him. Mr. Phillips sputtered, staring at Mickey with angry, beady eyes. All was quiet. Mickey could hear the faint harping coming from the receiver Phillips held by his ear. Popping his knuckles, Mickey leaned back on the door, watching Phillips with a blank yet serious stare. He crossed his arm. The heater was on in this office, and honestly Mickey's coat and scarf was becoming a little much. He left them on, though, since he needed to be quick about this. Before the rest of the stoop troop came back into their fancy little offices to sip their booshy water, pinkies up.

Knitting his brow, scowling, Phillips pressed the phone against his face, looking up at Mickey as he spoke to whoever was on the other line. "I'm going to have to call you back," Phillips said, disgruntled, "some nut job just stalked in and set up camp in my office."

Mickey snorted, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. His gaze followed Phillips's hand as he hung up the phone. Harshly. His knuckles white as he gripped the phone still, glaring at Mickey. Unafraid. Mickey chuckled because that would change real quick. When Phillips let go of the receiver, cleared his throat obnoxiously, and began standing, Mickey tilted his head, amused. Phillips's chair scratched hard against the floor. Apparently the wheels couldn't take his large body anymore than Mickey's eyes. As the man stood, Mickey licked the corner of his mouth, uncrossed his arms, and wagged a finger. "Sit back down, dumb-shit," Mickey said, sarcastically polite, smiling wide.

"Excuse me?" Phillips barked. "Who the hell are you?" he asked, openly aghast.

Mickey uncrossed his arms, shrugged, and walked over to the desk. He stood there, barely a few inches away, and stared down as Phillips slowly lowered himself back into the seat. It bowed as he situated himself. Creaked. The clock above the doorway ticked. Besides those sounds, the room was eerily quite. Every once in a while, Mickey sniffed because the cold was getting to his sinuses. Only a few moments were necessary for Phillips to be overcome with a knowing look. The fucker glanced back at his phone. Aware now that he should probably have not gotten too big for his britches. Oh wait. Mickey caught himself grinned at his own thought process, and squashed it immediately. He fucking hated when he did that shit. Face going blank again, Mickey rolled his shoulders. The left one popped loudly. Ached for a second.

"I—'' Phillips tried speaking, but Mickey held his hand back up, cutting him off.

"Did I ask you to speak?" Mickey said, raising both brows, serious. "No," he went on, "I didn't." He cupped a hand to his ear, mock listening, looking off to the side. Mickey then leaned down, palms flat on the desk, and placed his face very close to the land lord's. Who smelled fucking worse than burned dog shit. Mickey wrinkled his nose, but tried not to give much of a reaction besides that. He was too busy fucking with the guy. A wicked toothy, crooked smiled plaid Mickey's mouth. He turned his neck, looking behind him. Fast he jerked it back to Phillips and cocked a brow. "You hear that?" he asked, still smiling.

Phillips shook his head, eyes gone wide. Sweating out of fear now.

"No," Mickey said, voice even, "you don't hear a god damned thing. Know why?"

Phillips swallowed hard, holding his chest now and breathing out of his mouth. Making the stench worse.

"Because you're alone, William Phillips," Mickey said, serious. "Everyone's out to lunch!" as he said this, Mickey stood back straight, put his arms out open by his sides. "You're alone," he said this bluntly, face dropping all hints of play. He put his arms back by his sides and went meeting Phillips's eyes.

"Who are you?" Phillips repeated, pressing back in his chair, obviously wanting to retreat.

Mickey sighed heavily, pushing one hand deep in his pocket. "I live here," he said, then corrected, "lived. I'm moving out today. This place fucking sucks." He pointed to himself with his freed hand. "Mickey. Mickey Milkovich. You remember," he finished, indifferent.

Phillips looked back to the phone, hand wound tightly against his chest now. "I don't recall that name," he murmured.

Snapping his fingers and rolling his eyes, Mickey pressed his lips thin and fake tapped himself on the forehead. "Right," he chuckled, then rubbed his chin, "I gave you a fake name. Fake ID and all that. It's Darren," he said, nodding for no particular reason other than to weird out fatso. "Darren Folsom. I think. I loose track sometimes," he said, no real emotion behind his words, eyes looking at Phillips, but not really focused. Lost in his own thoughts. Finally, Mickey looked behind himself to the chair in the corner. He turned his attention back to Phillips, thumbing in the direction of the lonely looking seat. "Mind if I sit down?" Mickey asked, already walking over to the chair and pulling it forward. He sat down, sprawled out sloppy, hand cupped in his lap, one leg propped up on Phillips's desk. Mickey wetted his lips after another brief silence. He watched Phillips as the man kept sending longing glances to the phone.

Phillips finally cleared his throat. When he broke the silence, his voice was scratchy and nervous, jumpy. Much different from earlier. Mickey mused inwardly at how funny it was, the way people changed tune so quickly under Mickey's stare. A talent Mickey was quite proud of. Intimidation.

"The lawyer," Phillips said, breathing heavy, wincing.

Mickey shook his head. "I'm not a lawyer," he said casually, face scrunching a little. "I lied. I do that often."

"Who are you?"

Mickey rolled his eyes, bored of this game now. "You've asked that three times now," he grumbled. "Fucking Christ, you piece of lard." He scowled, looking over at Phillips's closed blinds. He held his chin in-between his fingers as he stared. Cover the lower half of his face completely. "Mickey," he said again, slowly, muffled this time, "Mickey Milkovich."

"What do you want?"

Mickey heard a squeak. From the corner of his eyes, he saw Phillips reaching for the phone, thinking Mickey wasn't aware.

Mickey sighed, closed his eyes. His stomach tightened. "I told you, I'm moving out today. And you have something I want back," he said.

The squeak again.

"Don't fucking touch that, William," Mickey said harshly, between his teeth.

But too late. The dial tone rang out in the room, filling Mickey's ears. Because Phillips had gotten startled. Had lost his sneaky cool and had knocked the whole telephone system off of his desk. The receiver dangled on, sounding off and knocking against the wood. Mickey chewed his tongue, unmoving, and opened his eyes, just staring into space. Listening to the dial tone. His skin burning beneath the surface. His hands tingling. His heart pounding, pulse mingling together with the sound of the dial tone in his ears. Slowly, Mickey craned his head to looked back at Phillips. The man looked so scared. So guilty. Yet still he was reaching for the phone. Mickey figured that at this point, Phillips thought he hadn't much to lose. Taking in a deep breath, Mickey let go of himself, lurched forward in the chair, and grabbed the stapler sitting atop the desk. And all in one swift motion, took to assaulting Phillips's hand with staples, one right after the other. Hardly hearing the man scream because all Mickey could hear was the sound of his own heartbeat and the dial tone.

"Hang it up!" Mickey screamed in the man's face, still stapling his hand viciously fast. Sure he must looked crazed. Whatever. Maybe he was. Mickey didn't like thinking too hard on his own behavior most times.

Phillips screeched and cried, struggling to cross his other arm over himself and pick up the telephone. He fumbled with the receiver, fingers barely touching it. Only succeeding in knocking it around more.

Mickey didn't let up. Not until the gun ran out of staples, and even then, he banged the tool against Phillips's gushing hand. Fast and hard, Mickey threw the staple gun against the wall, leaned over the desk, and pulled the whole phone from the wall. Done, he stood back up straight, panting, looking at Phillips's with wide eyes. He waited until his breathing had calmed before he leaned back down on the desk again, lips pursed.

Phillips whimpered, cradling his wounded hand against his white shirt, Staining the material red quickly. He glared up at Mickey, face furious again. "You fucker!" the man barked in Mickey's face, spitting spraying Mickey's face.

Sneering, Mickey reached across and grabbed Phillips by the collar. "Where's my deposit money?" he growled, making sure to spray spit across the land lord's face in a small bit of revenge. It made Mickey feel only a little justified. Only a little better about this whole thing.

At this point, Phillips was laughing hysterically while Mickey shook him. "Spent! Gone! Not here anymore!" he bellowed, neck jiggling.

Mickey looked down at the blood covering his tan gloves because Phillips had taken to griping Mickey's hands. Frowning, Mickey sucked in a sharp breath. He shoved Phillips hard, then violently wiped his hands against the man's startled face. Phillips stopped laughing immediately. Most of the blood came off because it had only been a little. Mickey wiped the rest on his black jeans but the gloves were stained. He wetted his lips and began digging through his coat pocket. Annoyed, hands shaking out of rage, Mickey pulled out his last cigarette and with a forced casual tone, asked Philips if the man had a light. To which Phillips looked at Mickey as if the lunatic had grown another head. But in the end, glanced back at his hand, and apparently decided that doing as mickey asked was a great idea. Suddenly cooperative, Phillips nodded to the box of matches buried beneath the stacks of papers which had gotten knocked around during the fierce stapling. Mickey dug around and found the small box, pulled out a match and sparking it. He puffed his cigarette, pocketing the matches for later use. "My money," he repeated even though he hated doing that. Repeating oneself, Mickey had always thought, showed a lack of confidence. Something should only need be said once. His father had taught him that. Had pounded that into Mickey at a young age. Phillips nodded, holding up both hands in surrender, and began rummaging through his desk drawer. He pulled out a compact safe. Began counting out cash, looking up at Mickey occasionally for reassurance. Fucking lab rat.

So Mickey stood there and finished off his cigarette, dropping the ashes into his coat pocket. Careful not to get any on the floor. And when he was done, he pulled out the box of matches again and put the cigarette carefully out against the useless side. Placed the finished butt back into his pocket. Looked back at Phillips, who had finished counting out all two thousand dollars, now laid out on the desktop.

Phillips knitted his brow, staring confused at Mickey's pocket. "Why?" he breathed out. "Why do that?"

Mickey sniffed and began cramming the money into his empty pocket. Then his pants pockets when he ran out of room. "Because," he said, placing away the last bill, "I can't leave a trace of myself behind."

"What?" Phillips asked, eyes growing wide once more.

"I mean," Mickey shook his head, frowning, "I can't let you live now. Not now that you know my name, William."

Phillips gasped, a very guttural sound. "I won't breathe a word!" he begged.

Mickey squinted his eyes, drew his lips into an unconvinced expression, and shook his head, looking down at the carpet.

"I wont!" Phillips went on. "I won't tell anyone!

"But you will, though," Mickey sighed. "You will."

"I won't!" Phillips groaned, shaking his head, eyes wide, tears building up in his eyes. Mickey could hardly look at the guy. His stomach turned and his heart sunk a little despite Mickey's efforts to disconnect himself from the scene.

"Don't lie, William," Mickey sighed, slowly pulling the gun out from the front of his pants. He watched Phillips pant, mouth dropped open, stuttering as he looked back at Mickey. Probably pissing his pants. "Lying's my job," Mickey said bluntly, arm extended point blank, aiming, pulling the trigger. There was no sound because of the silencer. Aside from Phillips's shocked yelp and the chair falling over. A loud thump as the desk shook. Mickey hadn't looked at the man while he shot him, had stared off at a spot on the wall behind the guy. Now the wall was covered in a spray of the man's brains and blood. And Mickey swallowed, mouth twisted in disgust. Closed his eyes and breathed for a minute before leaving the office and closing the door behind him.


	3. Cornered

**A/N: FYI the premise for this story has changed. As is obvious by the new summary. So if you'd like to not be confused, go back and skim of the end of chapter one again. Or wing it. Your choice. **

**Enjoy.**

Chapter Three: Cornered

The hotel Mickey now lived in was a block from the cafeteria, home of the shittiest coffee Mickey had ever had. Lately, he made it a point to go into that cafeteria with a glass of his home-made iced coffee. Just to sit there and slurp it loudly while staring at that teen-aged waiter who apparently still remembered Mickey from his first visit with that woman, Karen-not-Katelyn. Even though it had been a month since then. Mickey never bought anything, just sat there in a window booth, amusing himself. In his mind, this exchange with the waiter, whose name was Ian, was the most fun he had experienced in years. The kid was probably sixteen or so. Probably still being weened off his mother. Mickey pictured them as a kind of withdrawn pair of mortal enemies, forever in a silent war over who would be the first to break. Mickey always figured Ian would break first. Would finally quit with the death glares, grow a pair, and come over to slap Mickey's coffee from his hands. Maybe pour the coffee in the dirty looking pitcher down his throat until Mickey drowned from it. Ian looked the passive aggressive type. And Mickey fancied himself good at reading most people. It kind of came with the territory of growing up as he had.

Presently, Mickey sat at his booth, starring over at Ian above the rim of his glass, straw tucked between his lips. Half-way finished with his coffee. Most of the ice was melted by now. Because he drank it slow. Was doddling tonight because he had nothing better to do with his time. He watched Ian go into the kitchen, the doors swinging closed behind him. He came back, drying his hands off on a paper-towel before handing over a check to one of the only other people sitting in this shit-hole at closing hour. As the redhead stood back up, smiling at the old man sweetly and laughing at some joke which was probably stupid, Ian glanced over at Mickey. Mickey smirked against the straw, holding the kid's stare. Ian broke eye contact and stomped over to the counter. Rummaged through the register, counting out the old man's change. Of which Ian would probably only see a few cents, if any, as his tip. Mickey's eyes followed Ian faithfully. He tapped his fingers on the table top.

Ian was tall. Probably around six feet four inches. Taller than Mickey. But then, a lot of people were. Ian, though, he was too tall for a teen. And if he was going to be that tall, Mickey thought Ian ought to have been too skinny and have lanky arms as well, with a permanent puss face. So that the guy could at least model. Tall people should always be models, Mandy had used to say. Kind of dramatic, really.

And not only was Ian tall, but the kid was build broad. Like a fucking amazon. And he might have even been attractive. But then, Mickey didn't really think in those terms. Hadn't really ever found much any anyone to be attractive in all senses of the words. Here and there, bits and pieces. But never as a whole. Once when he was younger, Mickey had grown an interest in a singer for a band he liked. But the thoughts had made him uncomfortable with himself. Because the person was male. So Mickey had stopped listening to the band all together. Since then, Mickey hadn't really allowed himself room to think that way again. And was kind of annoyed that he had gone there with this gingered punk.

He watched Ian hand over the money and laugh at another comment. The guy was fishing for a tip hard with this old man. In fact, Ian had been fishing hard with every customer to have come and gone within the hour of Mickey's sitting. Come to think of it, the kid's usually relaxed face was hardened with stress. Mickey knitted his brow, examining the aspect he hadn't paid attention to until now. One thing he was fond of about Ian was how the guy always looked refreshed. Something Mickey wasn't capable of. Tonight Ian had dark circles under his green eyes, a droop to his lips, and creases between his brows. Mirrored Mickey's always expression. And Mickey didn't know why he gave a shit what was eating Ian. Why the fuck it bothered Mickey. After all, the kid was basically a stranger. He only knew Ian's name because he'd paid enough attention to his name tag for once, just last week.

Ian tugged loose his auburn hair from the ridiculous looking visor that was apparently part of the company uniform. But only for a minute, then push it back up. He stood off to the side, out in the open, not really paying attention to anything besides re-adjusting the visor. Until Ian looked up and saw Mickey staring at him still. He then rolled his eyes and crossed his arms. Stormed off to the kitchen again.

Mickey sighed and looked down at his coffee, stopping his drinking momentarily. He licked the bit of moisture still on his bottom lip and looked down at the menu taped down to the table top. The cafeteria was strange. All of the tables had menus taped to them. And the waitress or waiter always came over without a pad to write on, and just took the order from memory. Not like the list of food choice was long. So Mickey guessed that was what made the job of waiting tables here easy. Plus the place was usually pretty empty. He stared at the options, clicking his tongue against the roof of his mouth. Eyes drinking in the side orders.

When Ian finally came back out, Mickey turned out to be the one to break the cycle. The teenager jumped, having been heading to the restroom with his back turned, when Mickey tapped his shoulder once, a little too hard. More like a slap, really. Gasping as he spun around, Ian stared at Mickey, slack jawed. His eyes looked Mickey over quickly, assessing. Ian's arms were up over his torso in defense. Eventually Ian scowled, asking Mickey, voice full of bitterness, if he could help him with something.

Mickey shrugged, holding up the menu he had cut free from the table with his pocket knife. "I'm hungry," he said simply, jiggling the paper about.

Ian took a small step back and crossed his arms. He rolled his eyes, huffing. "Well we stopped serving fifteen minutes ago," Ian informed Mickey, unamused, clearly thinking Mickey was fucking with him. He looked away from Mickey's face to the menu. "And that's technically vandalism," Ian said, pursing his mouth.

"Couldn't read it very well taped down," Mickey said, licking the crook of his mouth.

Ian rolled his eyes again. "Doesn't matter because the cook already fucking left," he bit, surprising Mickey with the sudden attitude, then turned tail and went into the rest room.

Mickey couldn't stop himself from grinning after Ian had gone. He glanced back at the last two people leaving the cafeteria. Every night, upon closing, it was always just Ian and the dishwasher. Who Mickey had always thought might have been the cook. Apparently not. Though he didn't remember seeing a cook leave. Must have gone out the back way. He stood there, waiting. Looking back at the menu, still grinning a little as he gnawed his lower lip, then spat a piece of dead skin. His coat and glass of coffee sat alone at his booth, and Mickey looked over at them once, then back to the restroom door. Wasn't sure what he was even doing. Lumped it down to his being bored out of his skull. He scratched his head, raising his brows once and then wadding up the menu. Tossed the piece of yellow paper at the restroom door, then stuffed his hands into the pockets of his jeans. The action must have gotten Ian's attention because the restroom door flung open and the redhead stood there against the frame, scowling at Mickey.

"What do you want, you creep?" Ian growled lowly, whispering as he looked over at the kitchen door. "Ten seconds and Kash will be out here with a shotgun to blow your guts away," he threatened, looking back at Mickey, eyes hard.

Mickey barked out a blunt laugh. "Really?" he asked. "All of my guts?"

Ian looked uncertain how to respond, finally settled for looking down at the crumpled up menu by his sneakered feet.

"I'll need them, though," Mickey said, thumbing his bottom lip, "to digest the eggs I'd like to order."

Ian laughed without mirth, shook his head as he tilted it back, hands on his hips now. "You know what," Ian began, still looking up, "if it will make you leave, I'll cook you some eggs my damn self."

"Whatever works," Mickey said, face still indifferent. He fought not to laugh at himself for this.

Fifteen minutes later, Mickey sat at his booth, coffee drained, coat on, working on his ketchup drowned eggs. Ian stood at his booth, propping himself up with one arm, staring down at Mickey, his freckled face hard to read for once. Mickey put down his fork, swallowing his first bite of the eggs, and looked back at Ian. "Just remembered," Mickey said, serious, getting kind of sleepy being as it was after midnight, "I hate eggs." And he was being honest. Eggs reminded Mickey of Mandy. Mickey hadn't actually eaten eggs since the day of her funeral, two years prior.

Ian blanched. Stared at Mickey, blinking. Ian's face twisted. He snorted, obviously surprised at his own reaction, and covered his mouth. Then burst into laughter. Ian turned around, hiding his face completely. Mickey watched the kid's back shake from the laughter. Mickey licked the ketchup from the side of his thumb as he watched Ian.

The door to the kitchen opened and the dishwasher, a slender, middle eastern man in his forties, graying already by his ears, stepped out, confused. "Everything okay, Ian?" Kash asked, peering at Mickey.

Mickey sucked away the ketchup, keeping his eyes keen on Ian as the kid finally turned around, hand still cupping his mouth. The creases by his eyes were a dead give away that Ian was smiling. Mickey thought it was interesting that he had solicited this kind of a reaction out of the kid who seemed to find Mickey's very presence annoying.

"Everything's fine," Ian said, the amusement thick in his voice. He pulled his hand away from his mouth, a grin stretched across his goofy face.

Kash untied his apron and tossed it over the counter top beside of him. He straightened out his black sweats and looked between Mickey and Ian. "You going to be all right if I go on?" he asked. "It's getting late. I'm supposed to be home by now. Linda is probably worried." Mickey didn't miss the strange glare he was getting from Kash. Wondered at it only briefly.

Ian looked over at Mickey, who was half watching him, half looking over at Kash. Then turned his attention back to Kash. Ian nodded, waving the dishwasher away, saying, "I'll lock up. See you tomorrow."

Which was how Mickey ended up with Ian sitting across from him, watching Mickey eat the eggs, despite the previous claim. Ian had sat down almost as soon as Kash left. Had gone over to lock the door, and had then sat down without even asking. Mickey ate almost all of the eggs. Ian never said a word. Just watched. When Mickey was finished, Ian stood up, stretched, and waited while Mickey gathered up his glass and stood up beside of him. They left the plate sitting on the table and walked out together, Mickey the first out the door. And Mickey wasn't sure why he hung back and watched Ian lock up. But he did.

Sniffing and standing there facing Ian, Mickey suddenly felt a little awkward. He guessed because he was sleepy, and Mickey's guard always went down too much when he was tired. Looking over Ian's gray and white uniform shirt, Mickey was all too aware that Ian was staring back at him and rocking on his heels. Finally Mickey met Ian's eyes, thumbing his lower lip.

"See you tomorrow?" Ian asked, grinned like he fucking knew Mickey well or something.

Mickey shrugged. "Yeah," he said casually, "whatever." And without another word, broke eye contact and trotted across the street in need of his uncomfortable hotel mattress.

The cycle had been broken. Mickey wasn't sure how he felt about this.


	4. Being Brave

Chapter Four: Being Brave

Mickey's first job in Chicago finally came in, he was more than a little glad because all he had left in funds was about thirty bucks. He'd paid his room at the hotel two months up, had saved a few bills to live on, and was now almost tapped out completely. So, sitting inside the cafeteria again for the first time in weeks, Mickey rolled up pieces of napkin, staring out the window in wait. It was barely lunch time. The first thing Mickey noticed was the lack of fire headed waiter. He supposed the kid mostly worked nights. Or maybe the guy had gotten fired after the incident with keeping Mickey in there past closing. Not like Mickey cared or would know, given that he had been avoiding this place now that his coffee fun was ruined. He flicked a piece of napkin at the empty seat across from him, listened as it hit the floor, rolled under the table to join all of the other pieces of trash that Mickey had sat here an accumulated. Mickey leaned back fully in his seat, rested his head back against the teal leather, and sighed. He closed his eyes and willed his new employer to hurry the fuck along.

In the back corner of the cafe sat an elderly man, obviously homeless. Mickey had spotted the guy on his way to the usual booth by one of the only two windows. The homeless man stank of booze and Mickey smelt him even from his own booth, across the cafeteria. The man wore jean everything and an orange beanie pulled too high up on his head. Stooped over the cup of coffee given to him by the mean bitch of a waitress that hadn't brought Mickey his fucking eggs yet. And Mickey had been here for fifteen minutes. How fucking long could it take, given that there were only three other customers besides himself and the rambling homeless man. Rambling fucking drunkard hadn't shut up for a second. His babble was thankfully toned down and hard to understand. But annoying all the same. Mickey hated unnecessary noise. Fucking hated it. And right now, all Mickey could hear was a murmur of nonsense ringing about in his head, mixing with his quick to pick up pulse. He wished the guy would quite before something bad happened. Mickey couldn't understand a word the man was saying, but assumed it was about aliens, spies, or terrorists. Maybe the government. Something pointless.

Mickey scratched his neck absently, counting slowly in his head to contain his bubbling annoyance-turned-rage.

The door opened up, letting in a gust of cold air. Mickey forced himself not to shiver. Grinding his teeth until the cold passed. Whoever entered sat down in the booth behind him. Mickey sighed. Now he needed to move because no one should hear what he would discuss soon. He sat upright and grabbed his coat, moved to the corner booth near the restroom, farthest away from anyone. From here, he had a full view of the person who had fucking ruined sitting at Mickey's booth for today. The booth that was still missing its menu. Mickey sat there, picking his nails, frowning at the person. Who Mickey actually recognized. Barely. It took Mickey a minute but eventually he saw that the stranger was that same man from Mickey's first visit here. The one who had blessed out the obvious prostitute. Or maybe she hadn't really been a prostitute. But Mickey had seen enough of them roaming around to recognize one off hand. Today the man was alone, like before. Mickey found himself idly wondering if the woman would join the stranger again. Who was probably her pimp. Had to be, given how the guy spoke to her.

Another ten minutes passed and the door to the cafeteria opened up again. Mickey made eye contact with the woman who entered. She was very business. Dress suit and all. Pussed face, fake boobs, fake nails, expensive looking sunglasses over her eyes. Mickey wouldn't have looked twice, except she was carrying the iced coffee from Starbucks that Mickey had requested over the phone. So she was obviously who was supposed to meet him here. Funny, because he had expected someone different, though Mickey wasn't sure what. Not this. My pushed down the smirk trying to creep onto his face. Rubbed his mouth and chin, propping his elbows on the table, and watched the woman approach him.

The woman, who looked like she was nearing fifty, sat down carefully. She looked around and pulled a face. Mickey watched her looked over at the homeless man a few feet away and knit her brow. Either at the rambling or the fact that such rif-raf was in her presence, Mickey wasn't certain. Didn't care to know.

"Alice?" Mickey half asked, half greeted.

The woman pulled her sunglasses off and tucked them atop her jet black hair. Her eyes were too close together. Her nose a little too rounded. She looked like she had recently gotten botox around her painted lips. Alice nodded and looked Mickey over, scooting across his coffee. "Ming," she greeted back, rolling her eyes and giving a curt laugh. "Obviously not your real name," she commented, drumming her nails on the table top. When Mickey took to staring at her tapping hands, he figured he must had looked pissed, because she stopped. Clearing her throat, Alice pulled her hands from the table and placed them in her lap. Mickey looked up at her again and she gave an uncomfortable smile. "You're a little young," she said. "What are you, barely in college frat?"

"Not your business," Mickey hummed, taking the first drink of coffee. Though he found the college remark amusing considering Mickey hadn't even finished high school past the tenth grade.

"Well," Alice sighed, pursing her fat lips, "I was hoping for someone a little more mature. Someone with experience."

He shrugged. "Leave then. We'll forget this happened real quick," he said, biting down on his straw.

Alice opened her mouth to speak and was interrupted as the waitress walked over and asked if she would like anything to drink. The bitch wrinkled her nose at the waitress and simply shook her head. Honestly, the way Alice had reacted even got under Mickey's skin. Not that he didn't think this place was for the rats, too, but he'd grow kind of fond of it in some way. Would prefer Alice didn't insult it.

"She'll have coffee," Mickey said suddenly, as the waitress turned to walk away. "And I'm still waiting on my eggs," he finished, letting his annoyance slip. His stomach grumbled in response.

"I'm fine, actually," Alice corrected, glaring at Mickey while she spoke.

"She'll have coffee and a burger," Mickey quipped, jerking his eyes, wide and daring, from the waitress to Alice. A small, fake grin playing his lips, clearly not friendly.

Alice looked over to the waitress. "I'm not really okay with meat," she said in a whisper, as if she was trying to hide her words from Mickey.

Which was the most absurd thing, given that he sat directly across from her. He snorted. "Rabbit food, then," he said, slurping his coffee again.

"I'm not hungry—'' Alice replied, heated, but stopped short when she met Mickey's silent, challenging stare.

He took a long sip from his coffee.

"A salad would be fine," Alice sighed, swallowing hard and looking up at the waitress from the side.

Confused and looking slightly concerned, the waitress nodded and walked away, telling Mickey's his eggs would be right out. Something in Mickey's expression must have sparked a fire under the waitress's ass because not ten more minutes and the food was on the table.

Mickey waited until Alice took a bite of her salad and drank the hot coffee before he set to eating his eggs. Just sat there and stared the woman down until she had finished almost all of her chopped salad. The ranch dressing looked god awful. While Mickey finally took a forkful of eggs, Alice sat down her own fork and dabbed her lips with a napkin, watching Mickey, face drawn and trepidations. A shit lot different from the cocky attitude she had came in with. She fought for words when Mickey met her eyes, still chewing his eggs. Blinking rapidly and looking around the cafeteria, Alice wrung her hands over the napkin. Mickey recognized her expression. Her breathing pattern. Her constant swallowing. Sudden inability to look at Mickey straight on. Knew this behavior well. This was the bitch suddenly realizing the situation, what she had gotten herself into. This was reality sinking in on Alice. Mickey loved this reaction. Had since the first time he encountered it. This was the thing that made everyone the same in Mickey's eyes. Everyone, no matter if they were rich, poor, religious, military, ex-con, male, female, young, or old. Everyone. No matter where they were from. Everyone reacted like this. Because everyone was the same. Except for Mickey, who sometimes wished he was like that. Wished he cared. Wished he was afraid of murder and crime. Wished he hadn't grown up around it. Wished it hadn't warped him. But oh well. Mickey was different than others and one day would fully come to terms with it.

"I don't know," Alice mumbled. "I'm starting to think I should leave." She still stared away from Mickey. Still tore at the napkin absently.

Mickey wetted his lips, cleared his throat, and sat his fork down. The eggs tasted like shit. He glanced at his coffee, almost empty. Then back at Alice. He snapped his fingers, gaining her quick attention. "Look," Mickey said, scratching his cheek, "I don't give a fuck about who you are or why you came to me with this. I'm not judging you. I just want your money. And you want someone gone. I can provide this." He stopped scratching and looked over at the pimp and prostitute for a second. Knitted his brow. Because the conversation being had between the strangers was getting rather heated. Even the homeless man was staring at them. Mickey tore his eyes away and looked back at Alice. "Last chance. I'm not going to kill you for backing out, since you're thinking that," he said, licking the corner of his mouth. "What's it gonna be?"

She continued staring, swallowing, but seeming to mull it over. Then she leaned forward, frowning, and said, "But I've seen you now. Doesn't that—''

Mickey rolled his eyes and reached out for his coffee. He sloshed it around, listening to the ice, then took a sip and leaned back in the booth. "Lady," he began, "a lot of people have seen me then backed out. What?" he cocked a brow, "you think this is new to me? It ain't." He huffed out a quiet, short laugh, more of a breath, teeth showing some as he smiled sarcastically. "I've been doing this since I was sixteen," he told Alice, cocking his head to the side. "That enough experience for you?"

Alice's eyes openly trailed over Mickey. Finally came to rest on the coffee in his hand. She knitted her brow. Mickey's eyes looked down, following Alice's gaze. He stared for a second at the letters across his knuckles. Figured she was trying to read them.

"Okay," Alice finally sighed. She looked up and their eyes met again. "So how do we go about this? Because it might not be new to you, but it is to me," she asked, voice shaking a little.

Mickey closed his eyes, brows up and mouth tight, taking in a deep breath, ready to spout off the usual 'how you found out about me,' 'what will happen if you go to the police because you change your mind,' 'the money has to be up front,' and 'who am I killing and where do I find them.' Ready to, but didn't get around to it, on account of the sudden scream and reverberating smack sounding off in the cafeteria. Mickey head jerked in the direction he knew the sounds came from. The homeless man near them began rambling louder, rocking in his chair and pulling the beanie over his head, lurching over, back stooped. Alice gasped, eyes growing wide as she looked around, startled.

The woman, who today was wearing an animal printed fur jacket, fishnets, and bright orange leather shorts, despite the snow outside, fell out of the booth, onto her side. Her hands smacked the floor as she landed, legs curled out behind her, still partially on the bench. Mickey furrowed his brow, turning his attention to the pimp, dressed in black slacks, a white tank top, gray sports coat tied around his hips, and suspenders, jumped up from the booth, pointing down at the woman, barking out about the money not being enough. Or something along those lines. As the prostitute sobbed, hands up around her face as she scrambled to her feet, Alice began digging around in her purse. Immediately, Mickey lurched across the table and grabbed Alice's wrists, scowling.

"The fuck are you doing, bitch?" Mickey growled, face so close to Alice's that their foreheads touched.

Alice yelped, tensed up. She dropped the phone back into her purse. "Someone needs to help her," Alice rushed out in one breath. "That woman—''

Mickey tightened his grip on Alice's frail wrist. "That woman," he emphasized, "isn't your concern or mine."

Alice looked over at the scene again. Mickey glanced up behind Alice, to the waitress by the counter. The waitress was staring at the display as well, hand over her chest. But people in this neighborhood didn't call the fucking cops for shit. For many reasons, some personal, some simply out of fear. Mickey was glad for that. But was pissed at Alice for considering it.

"You call the fucking cops," Mickey breathed into Alice's ear, "and I'll gut you right here. Ignore it."

Alice nodded fast, pushing her purse away with her free hand.

"Better," Mickey said, letting her go harshly, but staying close, still.

Alice looked pained as she watched the prostitute and her pimp have out their problems in the open. On the edge of crying, Alice began, "But—'' Mickeys stopped her there.

"This world is god damned ugly," he said, looking over at the pair himself. "Every one in it is fucking hideous and do horrible things. He's ugly. _You're _ugly. You are no better than him," he pointed over at the pimp. "Bitch, you're sitting here ready to string someone up for me to slaughter. What gives you a right to rat him out?"

"But that woman," Alice trailed as the pimp pulled the prostitute's hair until she was sitting back in the booth. He towered over the crumpled woman, still yelling.

"That woman is fine," Mickey said. Lied. "That woman wants out bad enough, she'd fucking leave him and his bullshit line of work."

Alice looked confused.

"She's a whore, Alice," Mickey sighed, stunned that the woman before him hadn't caught on. He supposed there were still sheltered people out there.

Alice sucked in a breath and looked down at the table. "I don't want this," she breathed.

Mickey jerked his thumb in the direction of the door. "Then go," he said, face blank.

Yet Alice staid. Sat there, staring at the table, Mickey watching her. As the pimp and prostitute continued their antics. Mickey only pulled his eyes away from Alice when the cafeteria door opened up. And only then because he thought, panicking suddenly, that maybe someone else had called the police. No one had. Cold air rushed in again as Ian practically stumbled in backwards, shaking snow flurried from his hair. Bright and practically a beacon in this dingy cafeteria where everything else blended together. Straightening up and slipping on his visor, Ian spun around. Ian froze, eyes wide as he looked on at the prostitute and pimp. By now, the pimp was leaning against the woman, who was all but laying back, whimpering, his finger shoved hard against her pierced nose, fingers biting into her caramel skin. Mickey watched as Ian scowled and shook his head.

"Get off of her," Ian barked. "Take your shit somewhere else, Rodney."

Mickey got the feeling that, just like himself and the mailman sitting at the counter, the pimp and whore came into the cafeteria a lot. Enough that Ian obviously was used to this. Hadn't batted a lash before reacting bluntly. Fucking brave for a kid who seemed to radiate innocence. It was kind of endearing. But then, Mickey didn't really know the guy. For all Mickey knew, Ian made meth in his basement. Maybe even worked with the pimp, whose name the redhead clearly knew. Appearances were sometimes deceiving. And Mickey had seen Ian be assertive on more than one occasion.

Shooting a snide remark in Ian's direction, the pimp hauled his whore up from the booth and pulled her with him as he stormed out. He knocked into Ian as they left. Ian rolled his eyes, shook his head again, and walked toward the kitchen. Furious. Mickey arched a brow. Intrigued already.

Alice breathed out, slow and long. Mickey blinked, suddenly realizing that he was still pressing his forehead against her's. He pulled back and sat stilted in his seat, staring at her. She fiddled with her sunglasses.

"Well?" Mickey said, licking his teeth. "You gone or not?"

"My husband," Alice said, voice dead as she stared at Mickey. He got the feeling she wasn't really seeing him anymore. "His name is Allen Godfrey. He's a pilot," she went one, and one right after the other spilled her need out to Mickey. Mickey who sat there and took in the information, not shocked at all that Alice had gone through with this. As she finished speaking, Mickey caught sight of Ian behind the counter, looking in Mickey's direction. Their eyes met. Ian's face was curious. "How much?" Alice asked, and Mickey went back to the task at hand.

"Straight off, one grand. When it's over, four more."

"That's awfully cheap, considering what you'd be doing," Alice commented, reaching for her purse.

Mickey shrugged. "I'm low rent," he said simple. "Makes up for it in volume."

The words seemed to disturb Alice, who pulled out her wallet. "Five grand for a life," she breathed, popping open the wallet.

Mickey's eyes went wide. He jumped up again, slamming a palm on the table. "Put that shit down," he hissed. "Not fucking here," he went on as Alice's gasped, eyes huge, hands shaking, and dropped the wallet to the table. It clanged. Mickey pursed his lips and shook his head. "Meet me tomorrow. Have the money wrapped up in something.

"Like what?" Alice asked, terrified.

Mickey stared her down, scowling. "I don't fucking care," he bit. "Just don't make it obvious." From the side, he saw the waitress leaving. Saw Ian going over to greet the mailman and pour a fresh mug of coffee. Noticed how Ian's eyes were still one Alice. How Ian was worrying his lip. Could practically see the gears turning. Thinking what, Mickey didn't know. Apparently the punk was as nosy as Mickey. This made Mickey wish he had picked a different venue to meet Alice in.


	5. Happy Birthday

**A/N: btw I based the character of Alice off of Celia Hodes in Weeds.**

Chapter Five: Happy Birthday

Mickey woke up the next morning with a headache from hell. He sat up in bed, rubbing his face hard. Eyes droopy, frowning, and trying not to throw up, Mickey looked over at the nightstand by his bed. The curtains were drawn, but a sliver of light was being a real pain in Mickey's ass. While staring at the digital clock and empty bottle of grape flavored vodka, Mickey reached beside of him, picked up a pillow, and threw it violently behind him, into the window. Which had the opposite effect of what he was going for; only served to let in more light. Growling, Mickey threw the covers from himself and draped his legs over the edge of the bed. He sat there, staring at his feet. A chill came over him, goosebumps breaking out over all of his exposed skin. He scratched the back of his neck and glanced up at the thermostat above the nightstand. The heat had kicked off. A terrible thing, given that Mickey's hotel room was drafty anyway. And what with him only wearing a pair of boxers, Mickey was feeling more than little cold. He looked back longingly at the rumpled up comforter and his mashed in pillow. Were the warmth was. Sighed, gripped his knees, and shoved up to stretch. Crawling back into bed would be great, except Mickey had shit to do, and it was already three o'clock in the afternoon.

"This is bullshit," Mickey mutter to himself as he stepped over, and pressed against the nightstand to fuck with the thermostat. And it wasn't like he could walk down to the front desk and bitch about this. He began spinning the dial quickly, hoping to at least hear some kind of noise irrupt from the unit attached to the window. Nothing. Mickey bared his teeth. His headache pounded. His body shivered. Worse still was that Mickey could hear the rain pouring down outside, and this only made him feel colder. Cussing the thermostat, Mickey began hitting it, lightly at first, and then so hard that it cracked.

"Fuck!" Mickey spat and hit again because no he had broken it. "Piece of crap," he growled at it and ripped the facing from the wall.

Well now he'd done it. Now even if he could manage to get this shitty hotel to come take a look at the thermostat, he would not only have to pay for repairs, but the maintenance person would probably just shrug and say better luck next time. After all, Mickey was staying in a hotel that also rented by the hour. So it was pretty fucking run down. He doubted they really even had a maintenance person.

Staring at the tare he had placed in the wall, at the various wires and such, Mickey held his forehead. He glanced down at the the broken thermostat by his feet. Pursing his lips, he gave up and stepped over the trash. Beside of his bed, in a wrinkled up pile, were his clothes from yesterday. He put those on and ran a hand through his hair, looking at himself in the scummy mirror on the opposite wall. He looked like he'd been hit by a truck. Of course, Mickey figured he kind of always looked like that. Too tired. Unkept. In a constant state of angry face. Was why he didn't really like mirrors. They made him actually look at himself, and Mickey didn't usually like what was staring back at him.

He looked away quickly, then over at the suitcase in the corner. The things inside of the suitcase were sloppily hanging out of it. His coat was hung up on the wall lamp above it. He went over and put that one, which helped with his being cold only a little. Probably because the coat itself felt like it had been kept in a freezer over night. Which it kind of had. Mickey reached into the pocket and pulled out his rolled up gloved. Put those on, then actually looked at his hands.

"Christ!" he hissed, rolling his eyes and pulling the blood stained gloves back off and placed them back in his pocket.

His hands actually ached and were turning pink from the temperature in this room. So with haste, Mickey bent down and grabbed up all of the clothes hanging from his suitcase, stuffed them inside better, then zipped it up and grabbed it by the handle. With that, he stormed out of his room, locked it behind him, and figured three months was long enough to not do laundry.

Aside from being a shithole, Mickey's hotel had great placement. Just up the block was a grocery store, the El entrance, and a laundromat. He trudged the street toward the laundromat, passing the J and S Cafeteria on his way. Mickey stopped for a second, looking into the window at the handful of people inside. It was just the usuals; the homeless man, the pimp and his whore, the mailman, the woman was pretty sure had to be deaf, and of course, the waiter, Ian. Mickey frowned as his eyes landed on Ian. The kid was standing behind the counter, leaning back on it with his elbows, looking up at the clock on the wall. Mickey envied the relaxed look on Ian's face for about the hundredth time. Then knitted his brow because of the black eye he noticed. The busted lip. Mickey hummed curiously in the back of his throat. Watched Ian lick his scabbed up mouth, worrying the wound absently. Found himself wondering what the kid did outside of working this dump. But only briefly. Mickey shook himself when he realized he was staring, and continued on his way.

After tossing his clothes into the washer, taking a piss in the muffed up bathroom, tossing the clothes then into the dryer, and scaring the shit out of two kids who had attempted stealing Mickey's suitcase while he was outside smoking, Mickey gathered up his things and left. He had about ten minutes before his meet up with Alice at the cafeteria. Mickey was glad to be getting paid something today. He was all out of coffee and now smokes.

When he walked into the cafeteria, Mickey didn't bother looking around. Just sat at his booth, glad for the absence of the pimp. Only the whore sat behind him, and somehow that didn't bother Mickey; her maybe overhearing. He sat his suitcase of top of the table as quietly as possible, given his head was still pounding. His temples felt like they were on fire. He rubbed them and looked out the window. Alice, much to Mickey's surprise and pleasure, was walking by it as he turned to look out. But he furrowed his brow at the package she was carrying. Stared in awe as she entered with it, spotted Mickey, and came to sit down across from him. She looked so guilty and obvious. Mickey groaned. He pointed at the package. "What is that?" he asked bluntly, voice aggravated.

Alice, who was in yet another dress-suit, lifted the package and sat it on the table. She too stared at it. It in all of its glory. A foot long box, wrapped in blue and orange gift paper and silver tinsel. A card strapped to the front of it with fancy string. Alice scrunched her face, unsure of herself.

Mickey held his face, trying his damnedest not to grab the package and beat the bitch with it. "What is wrong with you?" he murmured into his hand, slowly dragging it down his face and staring at Alice over his knuckles.

"You said to conceal it."

Mickey's blanched and he threw his hands up at the remark. Fucking idiot. This woman was a blithering moron. Mickey had had half a mind to drop the deal himself. If not for needing money so badly.

Alice looked startled at Mickey's abrupt reaction. Apparently realizing that maybe bringing the package had been bad enough, that perhaps she ought not have said that at all, much less so loudly. She trust the package over to Mickey, apologizing.

He seethed, grabbed the package from Alice harshly, and began stuffing it into his suitcase.

"What now?" Alice asked as Mickey zipped up his suitcase and looked angrily out the cafe window.

Mickey felt his face twisting. Felt his eyes grow twice their size. Knew he was gripping the suitcase hard enough that his hand was probably turning funny colors. "Leave, Alice," he said tightly. And hoped she would. His temper was on edge, more so than usual, given his headache had just been made all that much worse by her stupidity.

"But Allen?"

"Leave," Mickey spat. "I'll call you when it's done."

And as he continued staring out the window, breathing heavily, Mickey heard her stand. Her heels clicking across the floor. Finally caught sight of her walking across the street. It took about ten minutes after she left for Mickey's stomach to settle. Though he still thought that punching something might make him feel better. And he sighed, closing his eyes and finally pulling his face from the window. Only to jump slightly at the sight before him. The fucking redheaded punk, standing beside of Mickey's bench, arms crossed, eyes searching Mickey, full of a gleam Mickey knew was curiosity. Mickey looked up at Ian, brows knitting together, frowning a little. Did this kid think Mickey had an interest in being friends? Mickey fucking hoped not. He'd hate to crush this guy's dreams. Mickey didn't have friends. Would never have friends. Friends complicated things. Hell, knowing people well in general complicated things. "What?" Mickey asked gruffly. Hand still laying across his suitcase, protective.

Ian looked down at Mickey's hand, a crease forming between his brows and chewing his bottom lip. He uncrossed his arms, standing there open. Seeming oddly vulnerable and making Mickey feel uncomfortable, though the kid was obviously unaware of the fact. "You stopped coming in to torment me," Ian said matter-of-fact.

Mickey raised his brows and shrugged rudely. "I got bored," he stated, watching Ian scrutinize the suitcase.

Ian grinned some, breathed a laugh through his flared nostrils, and dropped down into the bench on the other side of Mickey's booth. "You think I'm boring?" Ian asked after he sat down and began picking absently at a peeling piece of the table top, where the menu had been. His eyes never left Mickey's suitcase. The grin stretched a little. Mickey thought maybe this kid was crazier than Mickey himself. Ian finally freed the piece of table top and flicked it. The rolled up junk drifted and stopped in front of Mickey, who looked down at it, confused and wanting to leave suddenly. "Well," Ian began again, confident, grin gone, and Mickey noted the fucker was _still_ looking at the suitcase, wondered where this conversation was heading, "I don't think you're boring. You seem interesting."

Mickey's face relaxed and his picked his back teeth with his tongue, a habit he'd had since childhood. Laughed a little without smiling. "I'm not," Mickey said bluntly, even.

"Boring or interesting?" Ian countered, casually, voice there but distant all the same, cocking a brow. Mulling something over.

Mickey feared what was going through this guy's head. But decided he would play along for now. "Interesting," Mickey said, staring hard at Ian's thoughtful face. Watched as Ian's grin came back.

Finally Ian looked up at him and said, "No one ever thinks they are. If they do, it's because they really aren't."

Mickey stared for a moment, not breaking eye contact. He felt a tug at his lips. This kid was nuts and Mickey didn't know if it was in a bad way. Certainly Ian was in fact, not boring. Mickey shook his head, let the glimmer of a grin drift over his face and fall. "You have a fucked up view of what's interesting, Ian" he said, head tilted.

Ian blinked, shrugging and leaning back in the bench. "Oh yeah?" the kid chirped.

Mickey looked away and over at the prostitute as she stood up and made her way toward the restroom. Ian's gaze followed Mickey's until they both looked back at one another. Mickey scooted his suitcase closer to him, let it slid into his lap, and began standing. Like magnets, Ian's big eyes followed. Mickey looked down at Ian, suitcase in one hand, the other hand deep in his pocket, toying with the gloves and empty packet of smokes. All of this was strange. Mickey figured he hadn't intended to spark whatever the fuck was happening between him and the waiter. Had just wanted to screw with the kid's head because that's what Mickey did for shits and giggles. It had backfired. This kid had nerve hidden beneath that kidish exterior. So he stared at Ian, features turning to a frown. Then, without a word, turned on his heel and began walking away.

Mickey only took one step before Ian's cocky voice rang out behind him, asking, "Is it your birthday?"

Something about the way Ian asked it told Mickey the fucker knew damn well it wasn't Mickey's god damned birthday. Mickey knew the kid had seen the package exchange for sure now, if he hadn't thought so before. Without turning back around, Mickey said no, it wasn't his birthday. Maybe he should have just said it was to get the kid off his back. Mickey didn't why he had told the truth without so much as blinking. It was careless.

"Somebody die?" Ian asked in that same knowing tone.

Slowly, Mickey looked over his shoulder at Ian's indifferent face. No one should have put two-and-two together so quickly. Probably because no one had even paid that much attention to Mickey unless they were a cop. This kid wasn't a cop. And Mickey didn't know what to make of the situation. So he went with it. "Something like that," he said, glaring hard at Ian. He stood there and Ian staid put. They stared and everything was quite between them. Except on Mickey's part. His temples were pounding up a storm. He needed a drink to quell his hangover.

As they remained statuesque, the restroom door flung open and the prostitute stepped out, rubbing her nose and sniffling. Mickey glanced at her as she approached him, excusing herself past. Saw the powder beneath her painted finger nails. Then looked back at Ian because the whore was on her way out. Mickey knitted his brow at Ian, who was still staring after the woman, an odd look on his freckled face. Weird fucking kid. Mickey let his eyes roam over Ian curiously. "See ya," Mickey suddenly heard himself say. His voice caught Ian's attention. Because for some reason he had wanted it back on him. Ian nodded, and watched Mickey leave.

Once outside, Mickey made the mistake of looking back to the window of the cafeteria. Even from his distance, now all the way at the crosswalk, Mickey saw Ian still sitting at the booth. The redhead was stooped over the table top, holding his face in his hands, looking out the window. Mickey couldn't be sure, but he thought maybe Ian was watching him. Quickly, Mickey crossed and made his way to the hotel to ready for his hit. Trying not to think too hard on he'd just experienced.


	6. The Boy and His Gun

**A/N: So sorry to put this up this late, you guys! I've just been really busy lately. I'll try not to let it happen again! **

Chapter Six: The Boy and His Gun

The house was tucked away in its own garden, off of the road quite a while. Amidst the suburbs just outside of Chicago. The closest neighbor was so far that they almost didn't matter. Even still, Mickey scouted out the place the night before, after his getting that damn gift from Alice. Found all of his outs, should there be a need. And today he had sat in the brush across the street from the sole neighbor, with a bottle of water and a container of barbeque Pringles, waiting, watching. Finally the entire family left the house; this had only taken from eight until noon. Which was fine with Mickey, considering Allen wouldn't get home until one in the afternoon. According to Alice, her son was with the sitter until after five, when Alice would return home to find her husband dead and house looted. Would call the police and make sure the child was far away from the scene. Would be certain to have the kid elsewhere. In the car, maybe. Mickey didn't fuck around with that kind of thing. His own childhood had scarred him too deep. Too many times had Mickey's father dragged so-called friends into the house. Too many times. Mickey had been eight the first time he realized his father didn't have friends. Had been eight still the first time he walked in on his father beating the fuck out of some guy until the floor was slick with the dead man's blood. Eight years old the first time his father gave him a rag and some bleach, told Mickey to clean up. Leaving a kid fatherless, Mickey had no problem with. Hell, most fathers were basically burdens to their children. Mothers too. In Mickey's opinion. Mothers, or at least Mickey's had, relied too much on the fuck-up fathers and paid too little attention until things had gone too far. Or they died. Or both, simultaneously.

Thinking this, Mickey shuffled to his feet, stuffed his trash into the small shoulder bag he had brought along. Then covered the bag in the bushes, until he would come back for it later. He began his walk to Alice's home, already covered in dirt and a few twigs.

Mickey was a hit-man, but not the type seen on television. Not classy, well paid, or any of that shit. No. Mickey was the real thing; a grubby, killer for hire. And he was fucking great at it. Hadn't fucked up once. Not even his first hit. Had never even been suspected. The only three things Mickey had ever served time for were already wiped from his juvenile record; attempted robbery, possession of over an ounce of marijuana with intent to distribute (which he hadn't been), and assault on an officer. The later two in a combination, during the same arrest. But never once had any of his victims murders been investigated hard enough to sniff out Mickey. Probably because Mickey's favorite associate out of four, Rex. Rex handled clean up. And by clean up, that meant Rex had someone ready to finger during the aftermath. Like this time. Mickey didn't know who it would be. Never did. But this time Rex would come by and plant some fake evidence after Mickey ramshacked the place. Only a couple of things. Maybe just one. And maybe the police would find it, maybe they wouldn't. The clean up was always just for in case. In case a detective actually decided to do his job properly. Which usually didn't happen. Really, it broke all of Mickey's faith in the law, if he'd ever had any to begin with. Which he hadn't.

After walking for at least a mile, Mickey stepped into Alice and Allen Godfrey's front lawn. The lawn was well maintained; had a fountain and a bunch of flowers and cobbled stoned bull-crap. The house was too big and flamboyant. At least a six bedroom, Mickey figured. He stood there staring up at a second story window. Gloved hands stuffed in his pants pockets, hot under the collar because of his thick black jacket, and and yet freezing in the icy, late February weather. Yesterday's snow had long since melted, as it hadn't been a lot to begin with. All the same, Mickey was wearing shoes that were far too small for his feet. Shoes that he would toss into the back of a random garbage truck later. Shoes that, if footprints were found later, which they probably would be, wouldn't lead back to Mickey. The shoes made walking a real bitch, though. Just standing around was killing Mickey's feet. He wondered if his circulation was doing all right, given how long he had been wearing the shoes at this point.

Pulling his eyes from the window, Mickey looked around for signs of a vehicle. When he saw none, Mickey was satisfied for now, and hurried across to the front door. Alice had given him a key. Had shut off her alarm system from her phone. He entered the house without hitch. And without touching anything, walked up the winding staircase and found Allen's office, just where Alice had told Mickey the guy would come right after work. Thankfully his shoes hadn't left behind wet prints. Mickey made sure to watch his footing closely. When he reached the office, he sat in the corner chair, by the window, watching through the curtain for Allen to pull in. Not ten minutes later, Allen's car slid into the separated garage. Mickey knitted his brow because Allen was slightly early. But shook off the thought and readied himself. He pulled his toss away gun from jacket pocket.

He heard Allen walking around down stairs. Heard the guy come up, walk around some more. All was quiet for a few minutes. Mickey trained his eyes on the doorway, left open because that's how he had found it. Finally footsteps approached. Allen stood the in doorway for a second, yawning and undoing his tie. Mickey was hidden enough in the shadows that he hadn't been noticed yet. Not that it mattered. He watched Allen toss his tie onto the oak desk while walking in and rubbing his face. He studied the man before him quickly. Allen was tall, broad, and had a full head of bleached blonde hair. Looked older than Alice by a solid ten years or more. But that might have been because the man looked so tired. He was a pilot, which meant he probably had jet lag. Was handsome and had one of those kind faces that didn't look like the type to deserve what was about to happen to him. But then, Mickey figured most of his hits hadn't. He almost wished he could wear a blindfold sometimes. Because ever once in a while, Mickey couldn't get certain faces out of his dreams. It was as Mickey pondered Alice's reasoning that Allen's eyes fell on Mickey.

Frozen beside of his desk chair, half sitting, Allen stared, eyes growing wide. "Who the hell are you?" Allen breathed, stunned. "Why are you in my house?" he went on, voiced with a hint of fury somewhere deep in the throes of terror. The only sound in this dead silence.

"No hard feelings," Mickey said, detached, pointing the gun at Allen's face. He pulled the trigger. Disconnected himself, and pocketed the gun while Allen landed against the wall. Mickey's stomach lurched a little and he squashed it fast. It didn't matter how long he was in this business, Mickey fucking hated the sight of blood. He tried not to look directly at Allen's body. The man's face was blasted in and unrecognizable. Mickey turned toward the door. His breathe caught in his lungs. Eyebrows darting up, and eyes going wide, Mickey stared into the face of a little boy, no older than six, standing in the doorway, looking back at Mickey, scared. The kid burst into crying, fat tears streaking down his face. And ran. Mickey panicked. "God damn it," he growled under his breath.

Fucking Alice. Mickey had made sure his throw away prepaid cell phone had service in her house. Had told Alice to call him when she was coming home. Or if something went wrong. Bitch didn't know how to follow directions for shit. Mickey's blood boiled as he ran out of the room, after the kid. Heart racing. Guts in a knots. A sick feeling in his chest.

The child had made it to the top of the stair case, still scream-crying, when Mickey swooped him up and clamped a hand over the boy's mouth on instinct. Because Mickey had no idea how the kid had gotten here. Obviously Alice wasn't home. Mickey's heart pounded in his head as he looked around, expected to maybe find a babysitter calling the police. He didn't.

Suddenly the boy bit down on Mickey's hand. Thankfully Mickey's gloves stopped most of the clamp. Mickey pinched the kid's arm hard. "Shut up," he said as he did this. The kid struggled to fall from Mickey's arms, kicking Mickey in the nuts. Mickey grunted and dropped him. Bit down on the inside of his cheek and tasted blood. "You little shit!" he spat, watching the kid hit the floor, scrape his tiny knee, hold it, and cry more.

At this point, watching the kid, Mickey knew no one else was home. It occurred to him that Allen's early return clearly had something to do with the kid's unexpected presence. Mickey cursed under his breath.

The kid backed against the stair rails, hugging himself, pants soaked in piss, staring at Mickey and screaming. His tiny face was beet-red and slowly turning a strange sort of purple. His screaming became hushed, almost silent, yet his mouth remained wide open and the boy looked more than strained. Mickey was at a loss. This had never happened to him in his entire life. He was going to fucking kill Alice.

"Shut up," he repeated slowly, squatting down in front of the kid, gloved hands dangling between his thighs. Mickey sighed, turning his face away as the kid went on cutting off his own oxygen. And quickly, Mickey decided on his best course of action. Because no way was he going to be responsible for the kid going unconscious. So Mickey turned his gaze back on the kid, leaned forward and blew in the boy's face hard in one swift motion. The action worked. Startled, the boy sucked in a deep breath. Slowly his face went back to a normal shade. He hiccuped at Mickey, sniffling and shaking.

"You going to stop now?" Mickey asked gruffly.

The boy nodded pitifully. "My daddy!" he whispered, hiccuping more. "You hurt my daddy!"

"Yeah," Mickey said, biting down on his tongue to keep from saying something to damage the kid's psyche worse. "But I'm not going to hurt you," he went on, reaching into his pocket and pulling out the gun. He laid it beside of himself and cocked a brow, staring hard at the kid. The gun was unloaded. Mickey only usually brought along a single bullet, unless otherwise necessary. Today it hadn't been necessary. "Go on," he said to the boy, sliding the gun toward his socked feet, "take it from me."

The child looked away from Mickey, apprehensive. He stared down at the gun, then rushed to pick it up. Tucking it under his cartoon sleep shirt, the boy hugged the weapon against him tightly, guarding. Then went back to watching Mickey and sniffling. "You got more!" the kid cried, tears falling again. "I know you got more! You're a bad man!"

Mickey nodded and rubbed his bottom lip. A strand of fuzz tickled his chin. "You're right, I am bad," Mickey said, "but I ain't got another gun." he put his arms out by his sides, still crouched. "I'm defenseless now," he finished.

The child looked confused and worried. He hugged himself tighter, drawing in his feet now. "Liar!" he yelled.

Exhaling slowly, Mickey pursed his lips and scowled at the kid. He shook his head and reached into his back pants pocket. The kid tensed up until Mickey pulled out a cell phone and tossed it into the kid's lap. "Call your mom," Mickey said bluntly. "And don't fucking cry again," he went on as he stood upright.

The boy looked up at mickey, brown eyes full of water and lips trembling. Blubbering. Bubbles in his dripping snot. "I don't understand!" he cried to Mickey.

Mickey knitted his brow, frowning. "You're weren't supposed to be here," he told the kid. "What's your name?"

The kid wiped at his face with the hand that held to the cellphone. "David," he mumbled, then went back to crying softly.

"Sorry you saw that, David. Now call your mom. Tell on me," Mickey said, trying to sound indifferent. But the truth was, he did hate that Brian saw that. It wasn't that he liked kids. He actually thought they were disgusting. But he sympathized with this type of child. One from an obviously broken home. And in Mickey's life, he had come to realize people didn't have to be poor to have shitty lives. And if you were poor, it didn't also went the other way. Clearly this kid came from a fucked up family. Mickey watched the boy finally look at the phone and begin dialing a number. Hopefully Alice's. Trying to defuse this situation was more difficult than most anything Mickey could recall. But he figured gaining the boy's weakened trust couldn't hurt. Plus it would upset Alice to have her son call in while in this sort of state. And she deserved it.

A phone call and almost thirty minutes later, Alice was home. Mickey hadn't spoken to her on the phone, had simply allowed David to assume he had been in control; had been tattling and getting Mickey into trouble. It had pacified the child, somewhat. When Alice arrived, she rushed straight upstairs, more concerned if Allen was taken of than she was of settling down David, who had gone back to wailing the minute he heard his mother enter.

"Worry about that later, please," Mickey hissed while Alice ranted about Allen. He pointed down at the screaming child. "Get him the hell out of here, you god damned fuck up!" Mickey screamed in Alice's face, veins popping out around his neck.

Crying herself, now, Alice gathered up her son, gave Mickey his gun back, and began fleeing the house, Mickey hot on her trails. He slammed her front door and didn't bother locking it. Watched Alice load her son into the minivan. She locked the vehicle up and walked back over toward Mickey. She was shaking and looked ill. "What now?" she asked Mickey, sounding terrified.

Mickey could hardly contain his temper. He ground his teeth and stared at Alice with widen, crazed eyes. "You get in you van," Mickey said, stilted and on edge, "and go," he finished. He could see he was scaring her. As well she should be terrified.

"What about the body!" Alice whispered, shaking her head frantically. "What if someone saw you? What if someone saw me! Oh god!" she moaned, holding her face.

Mickey screamed at her, saying, "Lots of what-ifs, Alice! You fucked this one up royally. Just go! I'll handle it!" He pushed her hard, causing her to fall onto her ass. As she sat on the ground before Mickey, staring up, mouth agape, Mickey leaned down and grabbed her face. His gripped her chin, fingers digging into Alice's cheeks and mouth, almost fish-hooking her. "Bitch if you even so much as breath a word of this to anyone, you will get it so much worse than your fucking husband did," he threatened. "Take your kid to fucking McDonalds and fucking stay there until I fucking call you, you piece of fucking shit!" he growled, then shoved her face out of his grasp and spat on the ground beside of him. This whole situation left a bad taste in his mouth. Form the corner of his eyes, he saw David pressed against the driver's side window, hands and face to the glass. Crying still. Calling out for his mother. Mickey remembered calling out to his mother only once when he'd been that age. She'd slapped his face for it hard enough to knock his back tooth out.


	7. Rough Day

Chapter Seven: Rough Day

Mickey stood by the mound of tires, near the closed garage door. Arms crossed and glaring at the man before him. Sitting on the hood of a banged up Escalade, a tall, thin and lanky, greased up man sucked down a home rolled cigarette. His dirty blonde hair hung partially in his face, having fallen from the loose ponytail. His almost gray eyes stared back at Mickey, regretful. Mickey snorted, shook his head. He looked down at the hood beside of his company. "If you don't fix this, Rex, I swear to fucking Christ," Mickey trailed, saying this with a bitter laugh. On edge.

Rex sighed heavy enough that he made himself cough. After bending forward in a fit, Rex tilted his head back and yelped out his frustration and sore throat, clearing out his lungs. Then took another drag from his cigarette. After his long drag, he blew the smoke up and through his nostrils, glaring back at Mickey now, suborn. "You drove five hours to tell me that shit?" Rex asked, aggravated himself. His voice was light and ambiguous. "To threaten me?" he finished, licking his cracked lips.

Mickey smiled. Stunned at Rex's nerve. But then, he always was. He breathed out a laugh. "Mother fucker," Mickey bit, "your ass should have been in Chicago when I took the hit. The hell's up with you lately?" he pressed, only caring because his balls were on the line and Rex was starting to fuck up too often. Mickey didn't want a new partner. He liked this one; didn't want to do away with Rex like those before him.

Rex raised his brows and shrugged. "My girl's in labor, Mickey," he said, putting his hands out to his sides and flailing them haughtily. "Probably already popped the fucker out and I'm not even there. I'm here, with you on my first day as a father!" Rex nearly shouted, pointing harshly in Mickey's direction. "And," he went on, "I was on my way, I swear to science. But the hospital called, man. What the fuck was I supposed to do?" He threw up his arms, growing heated fast.

Mickey scowled. "Lower your god damned voice," he hissed. Not that anyone was around to hear. But fuck if this guy was going to get in Mickey's face. Mickey wasn't the one who screwed up here. He stepped forward, inches from Rex, who openly stepped up as well, refusing to stand down. One of the many things about the man that Mickey actually liked. Rex, like Mickey was usually unafraid of taking a punch. Hell, the day Mickey first met Rex, he had witnessed Rex fight off a guy just long enough the put the guy's gun against his own skull, and tell the fucker to go on and pull the trigger, to blow Rexs brains out. The guy had pissed himself and Rex's brains had remained intact. Rex had a keen ability to know when someone was bluffing or simply full of shit. Probably why he usually stood his ground against Mickey. Only once had Rex backed up and apologized to Mickey. Only once in four years. Knowing Rex could smell his bluff, Mickey rolled his eyes and relaxed, still standing nearly nose to nose. Rex followed suit and sat back against the car again, crossing his arms, legs stretched out to the space between Mickey's spread feet. Cigarette smoke wafting up between them.

"Look," Mickey began, rubbing his temple, one hand on his hip, "I don't care what you have to do, just get rid of this. Clean up this mess." He turned heel, digging through his pocket for his own packet of smokes. Lit one up, pausing before the side door. He blew out, then looked back over his shoulder. "And in the future," he said evenly, "can you just go back to doing your fucking job, and fucking investigate the idiots you send my way? This happens again," Mickey pressed, voice growing grave, "and _I'll_have to clean up. Don't make me do that." He held Rex's gaze, and for the second time since meeting Rex, Mickey saw a knowing fear creep across the man's bird like face. Mickey wasn't joking around. Rex heard the implication behind Mickey's mournful words. Knew what that meant. Knew Mickey would do what he had to. Rex nodded, then Mickey left.

His drive back into Chicago took another five hours out of his already shot to hell day. Halfway there, Rex contacted him and requested for Mickey to send Alice and her kid home. The body was still there, Mickey exclaimed, but Rex said to never mind that. That he was already on his way and would be there shortly after Mickey. Had in fact left not ten minutes after. So Mickey called up Alice and told her someone would be at her house near eleven that night, give or take thirty minutes. Told her to remain calm and keep away from the upstairs floor until told otherwise. Yet even as he said this to her, he knew Alice would not receive another call from him. Or anyone. Because when Rex cleaned up a mess, he erased everything. Everyone.

As Mickey drove back to his hotel, that boy's, David's, face bore into his mind. Tiny hands pressed against a window and fat tears strolling down screaming cheeks.

He got back to his hotel room ten minutes after eleven, and tried not to wonder too much on what Rex was about at the moment. Rex was even more apathetic than Mickey, or at least that's what Mickey's former partner had said.

Mickey plopped down on the end of the bed and stared straight ahead, counting the dents on the dresser. For all of his driving, Mickey wasn't sleepy. Was, in fact, restless. His stomach grumbled. Mickey pressed a hand against his middle, and looked over to the mini-fridge he had purchased and plugged in near the doorway. He already knew what was in there without going to look. Week old pizza and coffee creamer. An ice bag and pack of sliced deli meat. Mickey usually ate out. Usually at that damned cafeteria. When he did eat, that was. Mickey tended to eat about twice a day at most, and only one of those times did his meal consist of more than a snickers bar and iced-coffee. Maybe an energy drink in between. Sometimes he replaced the candy with slightly healthier Pringles chips. He'd had a sandwich this morning with his chips, while waiting on Alice's neighbors.

Chewing his bottom lip, Mickey stared at the mini fridge as though he were offended. Then stood quickly. He needed some air to quell his slow to simmer temper. So he picked up the scarf he had discarded on his way in, wrapped it around his neck, and left his hotel room close to eleven thirty. Getting food would be a problem in the neighborhood, given that most places except for bars closed up by now. Bar food had never been one of Mickey's favorites, so he figured he would just hoof it into the heart of Chicago and have at some fast food or some shit. A walk would help clear his mind some anyway.

Once outside, Mickey noted that his hotel room was the exact temperature of outside. Close to forty degrees, by Mickey's guess. He briefly considered just sleeping on the El tonight, given how cold it was. At least the El was a little warm. Tomorrow he was just going to switch rooms. Maybe even hotels. Maybe even neighborhoods. Mickey was getting a little sick of stepping on a homeless person every time he walked out of his door. Plus he missed Detroit. Going back there to speak with Rex had made Mickey homesick. Today just wasn't his day.

Hands deep in his pockets, Mickey stared straight ahead, ignoring almost every crosswalk light unless cars were coming faster than he could jog across. His stomach growled as he rounded a corner, taking the fastest way to the close by McDonalds. He stopped near a busy intersection, waiting for the cars to clear. When they did, Mickey had a clear view of everything across the street. The cafe lights were on and Mickey found this odd, given that the place should have been closed an hour ago. He knitted his brow and crossed, slowly walking closer to the shithole. He stopped a few feet away from the sidewalk, staring, frowning and deep in thought. There in front of the window, a too large, mans' jacket draped over her scrawny shoulders, was that fucking prostitute. Bruised up with a busted nose or lip; it was hard to tell. Ian sat across from her, refilling her glass with water. His pointy elbows propped up on the table as the redhead sat aside the pitcher of water. He looked worn out. Rested his chin flat on the table and clasped his hands over the back of his freckled neck. Mickey wasn't sure how long he stood there watching the prostitute cry to Ian. Just knew that he stood rooted to the streets, fixated on Ian's apparent opened kindness, until a guy on a bike zipped by. The honk startled Mickey back to reality. He jumped forward, out of the way, and turned around, screaming a curse at the lunatic. When he looked back at the cafe, he immediately wished he hadn't. His stream of curses had been louder than Mickey had anticipated. The whore and Ian were both watching him through the window. The whore looked away quickly and casually, uninterested, blowing her nose into a wadded up napkin. But not Ian; Ian held Mickey's gaze. Mickey tried and failed to pull his eye away. His cheeks felt hot and he had no clue why he suddenly felt embarrassed. Why it suddenly felt awkward standing around. Mickey wanted to turn tail. But somehow that felt even more awkward. So instead of turning to leave Mickey nodded and hoped Ian would just look away first. Of course the fucker didn't. A friendly grin swept Ian's face. Weak and sad, but honest. Troubled. Mickey sympathized. He felt kind of burdened down at the moment as well.

His heart jumped, skipped a beat when Ian turned his attention to the whore. The redhead leaned forward, spoke, then scooted out of the booth and walked toward the door. Mickey felt a rush of heat hit him. His stomach tightened as the cafe door opened and Ian stood there, holding the knob and blinking over at Mickey, curious.

"Want some coffee?" Ian asked, voice uncertain.

Mickey frowned. Shook his head, still standing on the edge of the sidewalk. The wind blew, ruffed his scarf, gave him a chill. Blew Ian's bangs about. "I'm good," Mickey said, kind of gruff. His way of saying no thanks.

Ian let go of the handle and crossed his arm, pulling into himself from the cold. "I mean," he began, voice a little too elevated for Mickey's liking, "if you're just going to stand there being a creeper, you might as well come in for something to warm you. It's really fucking cold out here."

The wind blew again. Mickey stared, said nothing for a minute, then walked forward. The cafe was closer than McDonalds anyway. As they stepped in, Mickey looked over at the whore, who was turned around in her seat, watching him and Ian. Her nose was red, her eyes were puffy, she looked high on top of it all. The locked clicked and Ian walked around Mickey, going toward the kitchen. Fast, Mickey's attention left the whore and followed Ian until the kitchen door closed. Even then, Mickey stared at the door until Ian came back out, cup of coffee in hand. Mickey could see the steam rolling off the top of the mug. He took the drink from Ian as the redhead sat back across from the whore. Looking down into the coffee, Mickey was aware that both of them were watching him now. He knitted his brow. "I hate hot coffee," he said, cocking a brow, still gazing into the brown liquid. The steam warmed his chilly, stiff face.

The whore went back to blowing her nose, eyes still on Mickey. Really the whole situation was getting rather bizarre. Mickey figured his whole existence was pretty loony, though. So actually this made sense.

Ian rolled his eyes, chewing a piece of gum Mickey hadn't noticed until now. "It taste the same, hot or cold," he said off handed, then scooted over in the bench, looking up at Mickey expectantly.

Mickey pulled a chair out from a near by table. Scooted it over. It screeched on the floor. He sat in it backwards, a few feet away from Ian and the whore. As Ian watched him do this, a look of being offended, confused, and yet understanding washed over his face. He shrugged at Mickey and went back to looked over at the whore.

"He's gonna kill me," the whore sighed, a voice of acceptance, sniffing hard and pushing gripping the snot rag hard. "Ian, Rodney's gonna kill me and your mama," she went on, shaking her beaten face, "Specially your mama."

Mickey furrowed his brow, listening, eyes trained on Ian's reaction to whatever the fuck they were talking about. Clearly something to do with the pimp. He took a sip of the hot coffee and pulled a face.

Face drooping, eyes down cast now, Ian crossed his arms on the table top and rested his forehead. Said nothing for a long while. When he finally did speak, Ian didn't lift his head, so his voice was muffled into the groove of his arms. Mickey stared at Ian's crown while the kid spoke. "Shatera," Ian began, "which one of you really stole it? Be honest." His voice didn't hold anger of any sort. It was upset, but in a much more depressed way.

"Your mama, baby boy. Your mama," Shatera said, dabbing at her blood face with the filthy napkin. "She ain't thinkin right."

"When is she ever," Ian stated, this time his voice held harshness. It quickly disappeared, and the next words were gravely. "Where is she now?" he asked.

Shatera shook her head, running a hand over her braids. "Ran off with that dike truck-driver. Says she's in love," she said, trepidacious. "They gonna sell it for a place to stay a while."

"Fuck," Ian breathed.

"I told him I took it," Shatera said, reaching across the table and touching Ian's elbow. Ian lifted his head only enough, eyes damp but face strained to stay strong. Shatera stroked Ian's elbow, gave a pathetic looking grin, then motioned to herself. "Look here," she said in reference to her face, "he believes it."

Ian scowled, shook himself, then swallowed hard enough that Mickey saw his adam's apple bob. The redhead looked at the whore with regret. "That doesn't help anything," he said, then dropped his head again.

"I'm sorry," Shatera breathed, holding Ian's elbow again. "She'll be back. Monica always comes back."

Mickey sat there and watched as Ian fell asleep in that position. As Shatera joined him. Until the sun came up.


	8. Eat Me Drink Me

Chapter Eight: Eat Me Drink Me

Mickey had told himself he stayed until morning only because he didn't want to sleep in that fucking cold ass hotel room that he pretty much owned by now. And honestly that was the truth. When morning came, Mickey began leaving before Ian stirred. Actually, Shatera was the first to wake up. Mickey hadn't been sleeping to begin with, but was struggling to keep his eyes open at this point, even after several cups of coffee. When the whore woke up, it was as Mickey trudged out of the kitchen, slab of meat crammed into his mouth and cup of joe in hand, ready to bounce out. He froze, kitchen door swinging closed behind him. Their eyes connected and Mickey swallowed his partially chewed ham. Didn't move as he watched Shatera shift about while glancing from Mickey to Ian. The woman stood up, zipping Ian's coat up against her to just below her chest. She straightened out her dress. And as she walked toward Mickey, Mickey sat his mug quietly down on the counter and knitted his brow, face hardening within seconds. So much for a clean getaway.

She stepped over, scratched her head, and reached down the front of her shirt, pulling out a lighter. Mickey scrunched his nose at the unabashed action. "Spare a cigarette?" Shatera asked him in a whisper, readying her lighter.

Mickey looked her over. She smelled strongly of cheap perfume and mens' deodorant. Also of cigarettes and something rather unpleasant that Mickey couldn't place. And she looked disheveled. Her hair was only half braided, the freed side sticking up in a nappy disarray. The blood, Mickey now saw it was from her nose, had caked on dry. She was also bleeding above her left eye, but that had scabbed over. An eyebrow ring looked to have been ripped out. Her makeup ran all over her face. Like her face had been held in water. Probably had. Mickey recognized the look because he'd seen his father try that on Mandy once, before Mickey had reacted, back when he'd been barely sixteen, just before this life of his started off. The night of the car crash. Shatera's dress was ripped above the shoulder. He saw it because the coat hung loose, sloppy around that arm. She held her ribs with one hand, wincing. Probably had a cracked one. She complained about the rib last night, after Ian had been sleeping for nearly an hour.

Mickey stopped staring and reached into his pants pocket, pulling out the nearly full pack of Camels. He gnabbed two, then stuffed the pack back into place. Holding his hand out, Mickey waited for the whore to grab one. She did so, then lit up and handed Mickey the lighter. He joined her. Looked up at the clock. As if reading his mind, Shatera told Mickey the place wouldn't be open for another three hours because the owners had mass or something akin this morning. She wasn't religious, she said, saying she didn't know one cult gathering from another. Mickey, leaning on the counter now and looking over at Ian worryingly, took a long drag and blew smoke in Shatera's face when he finally turned to face her fully. He rubbed his bottom lip. He said simply, quick, because for some reason he felt comfortable with this woman he barely knew: "I don't do that shit either. Faith makes people weak." And after he said it, Mickey found himself pondering if that hadn't been the most natural, deep thought of his that he'd ever said to another human being. Besides Rex on the rare occasions of the two smoking a blunt together.

Shatera nodded, staring at the cigarette in her bruised hand. "Thanks again," she said. "And thanks for keeping me company last night. I know you coulda left. Didn't seem too much like you was wanting to stick around."

Frowning, Mickey stood straight and grabbed the cold coffee he'd made himself. Chugged it, then stood there, quietly finishing off his cigarette, watching Shatera finish hers. He left when Ian began waking.

Almost week later and Mickey was finally seeing Shatera hanging around the block. At first, the day after his staying at the cafe overnight with Ian and the whore, Shatera had gone missing. Mickey thought maybe Rodney had killed her. Until today. Ian clearly thought so as well, given that he had ducked out of work for five days. Or maybe that had more to do with Ian's mother apparently running off with another woman. Mickey didn't know or care to get too deep into the situation, if he was being honest. Today, he saw Shatera standing on the street corner, getting into a car with some businesslike looking motherfucker in a tie. She looked out of it kind of, but alive. And Ian was going into work, so Mickey felt a bit of relief and wasn't sure why.

He sat on a bench, appearing as though he were waiting on a bus. He wasn't. He had just come back from another hit and needed to sit down and breathe. Rex had mad up for his mistake by setting Mickey up with a generous old man who had needed his business partner out of the picture. Owned some restaurant in Northern Chicago. Had only moments ago paid Mickey double the asking price and offered Mickey free meals any time he was around the guy's establishment. Great fucking hit. Except that the man Mickey had went after turned out not to be a man at all really, but a woman. A woman in her late fifties who looked a lot like the bitch Mickey had used to catch Mandy watching on television with some sock-puppet lamb back in the nineties. Lamb Chop, he remembered now, images of his little sister, five years old maybe, and her own stuffed Lamb Chop flooding his mind. Her ghost voice ringing in his ears.

"_Hey, Mickey, I learned how to see if I'm tall as you! Lamb Chop says you stand back to back and see. Will you measure us? Please!"_

Mandy had always seemed so untouched by their surroundings, right up until the night of the crash.

"_Assface, you seen my car keys? Mom keeps trying to go out and find dad. She's way to fucking drunk to drive. She can barely stand. I just don't want her finding my keys. They have that bulky lamb charm on them. Seen 'em?"_

Mickey wished every day that he had just fucking helped his sister find those keys. Instead he had told her to go fuck herself while drowning his own thoughts in a bottle of Lithium. Because his mom was out looking for a man Mickey had buried in the backyard two days prior to the wreck.

Staring ahead, at the cars and people, Mickey felt numbed to the world. Numbered than usual. The money in his jacket pocket, sealed tight in an envelope, felt heavy.

That hit's gender had shocked Mickey because of his ignorance; Rex hadn't mentioned it, and when Mickey had phone him up, after meeting with the geezer and collecting his dough, Rex had apologized. Told Mickey he didn't see what the big deal was. Mickey had killed women before. And Mickey had told him to fucking forget it and was now sitting on a bench, his chest heavy. Maybe it was because he'd also swung by a funeral today before the hit. Had watched strangers bury Alice, her husband, and son. Whatever the case for Mickey's guilty conscience, Mickey willed it to the back of his mind and stood up, dusting himself off. Tried to erase the images of Lamb Chop. Walked across the street and went into the J&S Cafeteria. Sat in his booth, immediately looking over to Ian, who was serving up plates of fries to a group of kids around Ian's age.

The redhead looked very unhappy. And as Mickey stared harder at group Ian was serving, it became painfully obvious why Ian seemed pissy. Partly his attitude had something to do with other bullshit going on in his teenaged life, but Mickey could tell most of the current upset had more to do with the three boys taunting Ian about something. What, Mickey didn't know, as he couldn't really hear from the distance. Ian slammed the plates of fries and the glass container of ketchup. Pursed his mouth in a grim frown, and glared hard at the blonde haired, jock looking kid. The jock grabbed a fry, threw it in his rather large mouth, and chewed. All teeth. Letting Ian see the mushed up food. Ian rolled his eyes and stormed away. He made it almost past Mickey's booth before he actually saw Mickey and froze. Then walked over and sat down forcefully in on the other side of the booth. Scowling, but not at Mickey. Leaning back and crossing his arms. Glaring over at the group of twats in the corner.

"I hope they choke on those," Ian said absently. No introduction necessary. No need to ask Mickey if he needed to order anything. No need mentioning Ian's absence. No need mentioning anything really, except the here and now. Mickey liked that about Ian; that Ian understood and had a silent agreement with Mickey about living in the now as best as possible. Trying to block out past events that felt a little weird. Skipping over a lot of bullshit.

Mickey snorted and looked over at the three boys, who were howling with laughter. "Say something back," he said casually, drumming his fingers on the table top absently. Then glanced at Ian from the corner of his eye.

Ian pulled a sarcastic smirk and rolled his eyes, cheeks bunching up. "That never really works against Matt and his goons," he sighed. "Doesn't fucking matter anyway. I spit in his fries. Put some dandruff salt around the edges."

Mickey almost chuckled at the innocent act of revenge. He'd forgotten long ago what that felt like. Now when someone pissed him off, Mickey just killed them. Or injured them. Whichever was safest on his own behalf. "Passive aggression is the first sign of a sociopath," Mickey muttered snidely, licking the corner of his mouth and looking away from the group and at Ian.

"Thought full on attack was," Ian scoffed, his face softening some. Mickey noticed quickly how tired Ian looked.

"No, that's a psychopath, and" Mickey said, serious but joking, "that comes later."

Ian fooled with his visor, straightening it out and running a hand through his bright hair. "Well, I'm neither, swear," he commented, making an X across his heart.

"Makes one of us," Mickey muttered under his breath, low enough that Ian missed it. Yet the redhead didn't look fazed. Briefly confused, but didn't bring it up.

There was a stretch of silence. Mickey delved back into his own thoughts reluctantly. Felt his face drop slowly. Finally Ian cleared his throat and asked Mickey if he wanted coffee. Mickey raised his brows and shrugged as if it didn't matter one way or the other, barely registering the redhead's presence now. The kid then got up and strolled toward the kitchen, disappearing behind the swinging doors. Mickey snapped out of his daze, immediately realizing what had happened when Ian came back out with a glass of ice and the coffee container. He filled the glass half full, then sat five things of creamer on the table and scooted back into the booth as Mickey practically inhaled the drink. Much to Ian's open disappointment, the kitchen door opened then, and the man Mickey remembered as Kash walked out and tossed his apron on the floor.

Ian sat up straight fast, eyes wide and mouth dropped open as he watched Kash flee from the cafe. Soon to follow the man was a woman, dragging two children behind her. She mad a dash from the kitchen, face hard and ugly because of her rage. Ian jumped up from the booth and ran after them.

Mickey turned in his seat to observe the display. As the couple stood outside the door, screaming at one another, Ian trying to but in for reasons Mickey didn't even bother wondering on, the car from earlier pulled up and dropped Shatera off at the stop sign across the street. She crossed quickly, counting a wad of money, and only looked at the squabble for a second before entering the cafeteria. Mickey heard the bell above the door ding, and as the door opened, the yelling voices followed Shatera in. They drifted as the door closed behind Shatera. Shatera walked past, going into the bathroom. Probably to freshen up whore style. Mickey's head circled, gaze following Shatera, then slowly going back to the window. Watched the woman who was clearly Kash's wife, slap Ian hard across his face. She yanked her children along again and fled in a hurry. Mickey figured he could see steam shooting out of her ears as she quickly boarded herself and the children into a taxi. Kash stood beside of Ian, hands on his hips, shaking his head. Ian just looked shocked and ashamed of whatever the hell was going on. When Kash put a hand on Ian's shoulder and Ian jerked free, scowling and shouting, throwing up his hands, Mickey figured he didn't want to know what was going on really. Except he was kind of interested when Kash held his arms out, face sad, begging Ian's back to stop walking as Ian ran across the traffic, nearly being run over by a mini-van.

Looking down at his empty glass while Kash reentered, Mickey worried his bottom lip. Debated on leaving. Heard Shatera leave the bathroom. Looked up at her. She stopped and smiled at him, giving a small wave. He frowned. More of a scowl and looked away fast. What did she fucking think, they were friends now? They weren't. She left right after. After she had gone, Mickey found himself looking over at the group of boys who were laughing at the homeless man, who today had come out of the mens' bathroom, piss running down his leg. Mickey felt almost bad for the old man as he rambled on about terrorists and fled as fast as his crippling legs would take him.

"Loony old bastard," one of the boys howled with laughter.

Mickey bit down on his tongue. Not because he feared lashing out on behalf of the old man. Honestly that fucker had been getting on Mickey's last nerve everyday for the last two month with his racists nonsense rants and constant stink. And it was kind of funny that the guy had pissed himself. Disgusting but humorous. But No. Mickey bit down on his tongue because Mickey was annoyed even more with obnoxious douchebags who thought of themselves as being the shit when they were really nothing more than looser punks who might one day end up on Mickey's hit list. Kids like the ones Mickey used to slam their limbs into locker back before he had dropped out of high school. Kids like the ones Mickey used to torment for sport. Kids who didn't look too hard at the ugly side of life and wallowed in their own bigoted ignorance. Mickey figured he would chew on a few pieces of ice and then leave. Fuck this place. Today was not a day to be around stuff that pissed Mickey off. He was too on edge. Might end up cutting one of the punk irrationally and going to prison.

Not five minutes later, the boys were tossing fries at one another, making a mess. One of the fries flew far enough to land on Mickey's boot. He stared down at it, raised his lip, scowling. Clicked his tongue against his teeth. The group hadn't even noticed their grave mistake. He kicked the fry off and stood up, just as someone else entered and the bell dinged. Not looking behind him, Mickey waltzed over toward the boys, face indifferent and serious. The jock noticed him first and scrunched up his typical face. Began standing up as Mickey neared the table almost completely now.

"You better take a step back, dude," the boy growled, confident, then smiled down at his friends. Like he was fucking Mufasa or some shit.

Mickey smiled at the kid as he stood toe to toe with him now. Tilted his head and scratched his cheek, nostril flaring and white teeth gleaming. "Dude," Mickey mocked, "go pick up your fucking fries."

He must have come off as playful because the boy didn't grasp Mickey's words. Instead, the jock laughter, pointed at Mickey, and looked back at his friends again. "Is this guy pulling my leg?" he asked his fatter friend.

Mickey's face dropped. "No," he said calmly, "no, I'm not. I'm not. Pick up your fries." Mickey pointed behind him, mainly to the fry that had landed on his boot. "Now," he snapped, eyes wide suddenly, rage seeping through

The jock looked at Mickey now and faltered. His brows quivered in confusion. He frowned, then told Mickey to go fuck himself.

Mickey didn't hesitate. He need to get out his frustration anyway. So he quickly grabbed the guy by his collar before the jock had time to think, and hurled the younger guy toward the floor. The kid skidded a bit, his face meeting tile, and landed amongst the pile of fries.

The mailman near the counter didn't move to help the boy, but instead looked somewhat fearful of reacting. It was as Mickey looked up from the scrambling boy that he saw Ian standing by Mickey's booth, a bag of Starbucks in hand, doe eyes staring back at him. The group of boys brushed past Mickey in a flurry, helping the jock out. Ian turned, watching them go, a grin creeping across his face as the boys looked from Ian to Mickey then fled. When he looked back at Mickey, Ian seemed smug about something. Mickey wondered if the kid thought Mickey had done that on account of Ian's earlier bullying. He hadn't. Although the idea that the group obviously related Ian to Mickey somehow, and had seemed fearful, put a peace at Mickey's mind. The boys would probably leave Ian alone. At least for a while.

Ian looked at the kitchen door, then sat down at Mickey's booth and turned his full attention to the bag. Mickey furrowed his brow, seeing Ian pull out an iced-coffee and some kind of cake. The cake Ian began eating after he had scooted the coffee across the table. Never once looking back over at Mickey. In fact, was ignoring him completely now. Mickey couldn't help the amusement that overcame him. He walked over and sat down, feeling better than he had earlier. Less grumpy. He picked up the coffee and began slurping it down. Watched in silence as Ian finished off the slice of carrot cake.

After l his fingers clean, Ian tucked his his hands on his lap, under the table, and set about finally meeting Mickey's eyes. That cat-like grin swept his face again.

"I didn't do that for you," Mickey was quick to say, straw hanging against his opened mouth.

"Right," Ian said, nodding, "I know. But thanks anyway." Ian then went to staring out of the window, his chin in his hand.

Mickey chose to ignore the statement. Went back to drinking his drink. Occasionally he glanced up through his lashes at Ian with pursed lips, thoughtful.


	9. Relate

Chapter Nine: Relate

It was hot and bright. Yet Mickey had chills. They were staring at him. Mandy was too. She was there, all cut up, and standing in the middle of the line, just looking at him. They all said nothing, just stared at Mickey, covered in sweat and shivering. Blinded by the beating sunlight. Everything was white save for the line of people, formed together as if playing a game of Red Rover. And that fucking song was in his head.

_This is the song that never ends. Yes it goes on and on, my friends. . ._

Over an over he heard this. Pulled at his hair. Curled into himself and screamed for the faces to leave him. For the noise to just please stop.

Mickey woke up in his new hotel room, covered in a cold sweat and crying. Breathing hard, he looked around, assuring himself that it had been a dream. Wiped at his tear streaked face, angry at himself for no apparent reason. Terrified at the same time. And then the alarm beside of him rang. He'd forgotten that he had set it. Mickey was trying lately to fix the sleeping schedule he had so easily fucked up by staying just one night at that cafe. And that had been over a week ago. For a week Mickey had been sleeping in until four or five in the afternoon and staying awake until nine in the morning. It was starting to wear him down. Mentally even. Because Mickey hadn't had a nightmare so bad in at least three months. Since before moving to Chicago. He had hoped the ghosts would stop chasing him. He had been wrong.

Sitting up, the cover dropping down his torso and resting around his hips, Mickey rubbed the back of his sweaty neck and waited for the alarm to go into snooze mode. It did so quickly. He reached over and unplugged the whole thing. Sat there until his morning wood somewhat subsided. The room was even temperature. Cleaner than the other one, also. He was glad to finally have switched. The only probably he had was that the bathroom in this one was cramped worse than the other one. He stood up eventually, the covers falling from the bed after him, and walked through the archway to his bathroom. Pissing away the remainder of his stiffy, Mickey scratched his stomach and leaned forward against the wall, aiming as best he could. One reason he hated mornings. Peeing was always difficult. As a preteen, he had been really confused. And hadn't had a father he was willing to ask about the changes in his body. So instances like now had confused the hell out of a very young Mickey for a long time.

He straightened out his boxers and walked back to the bed, falling flat on his stomach, feet dangling, head resting in the middle of his messy sheets. Mickey groaned. The dream had really put a damper on his entire day. Mickey could feel himself slipping into that pit of darkness that was always waiting for him.

Punching his bed once, Mickey thought about going back to bed. But the dream might come back, and fuck that. So he sat up again and listened to his stomach grumble. Before he had pulled the alarm from the wall, Mickey noted the time being noon. Better than four o'clock definitely. And this time he had remained up. So far. Exhaling then suddenly yawning, Mickey picked up the close by his feet. He shoved on his olive-green t-shirt, then stood up to put on his jeans and belt. He scratched at his cheek, feeling his scruff, and walked toward the bathroom again. Stopped halfway across the room, though, because he remembered that his razor was shot to hell. Shaving wasn't an option. Not today, anyhow, and honestly Mickey disliked having facial hair. It was itchy. So, finding his coat amongst the pile of filthy laundry, Mickey slipped it on and figured he needed to go buy a few things anyway. It was strange knowing that he would actually pay for the things he needed. five years ago, Mickey had not only been a hired murdered, but a thief and petty heistman as well. But turning twenty had come with some strange maturity Mickey hadn't expected to see in himself, since his father never seemed to have gained it. Maybe that was why. Maybe Mickey tried not to be his father in most way. He wasn't sure. And he was too damned upset to think about it. So he stepped into his boots, didn't bother tying them, and left the hotel.

Mickey's new room was on the first floor, so he thankfully didn't have to take the elevator lately. Or the stairs, which was usually where he tripped over the homeless people of this neighborhood.

He stepped outside and was shocked at how not cold it was for once. This winter had been a strange one. Freezing one day, almost hot the next. Mickey pulled off his coat and slung it over his shoulder. By the time he passed the cafeteria and walked into the marketplace, Mickey's phone began chiming off. He answered it, greeting Rex in the most unfriendly way possible. He was fucking angry with this guy on so many levels.

"Have time to meet a woman about an order?" Rex asked, cheerful. Code for having another hit ready.

Mickey felt it was almost too soon. He'd handled one just yesterday. Plus he was in a bad mood and this didn't bode well on his current state.

"Cancel it," Mickey said bluntly, then hung up. As he made his way toward the shave needs isle, Mickey's phone went off again. "What?" he answered gruffly, catching the weird look he got from a female employee stocking shelves.

"What's your problem?" Rex huffed, offended.

"Not in the mood, asshole," Mickey seethed. "Just cancel it and don't come to me for at least the rest of March with any more fucking orders. I'm done for a while. Done."

"All right. But we're missing out on a hell of a pay off to split."

"I said fucking cancel it. I don't appreciate having to repeat myself twice," Mickey said, face twisted as he grabbed a random razor angrily. "Besides, I have almost eight grand on me. I can afford a brake," he snapped, then hung up, shutting his phone completely off. Christ Rex was dense sometimes. Or maybe Mickey was just testy. Probably both.

The employee looked up at Mickey like he was on fire or something. He scowled down at her, saying, "What? Fucking bitch," and shoved past, purposefully kicking around the bottles of shaving cream she had been stocking. He left after purchasing the razor, some coffee creamer, and a tube of ranch flavored Pringles. Because the place was out of barbeque flavor and cheddar. He left the place in a worse mood than he had been earlier. Stalking back toward his hotel, Mickey stopped in front of the cafe. He wouldn't have today, except that Ian was standing outside, leaning against the wall beside of the front door, ankles crossed, smoking a cigarette. And spoke, greet him, thus causing Mickey to freeze a few feet back from Ian.

"Did something happen?" Ian asked, a knowing look on his face as he met Mickey's scowl with doe eyes. "You seem upset," Ian said, putting his cigarette out on the standing ashtray.

Cause he fucking was. And the fuck was this guy to call Mickey on it? "Just another day, Kid," Mickey bit. "Leave it alone." He walked forward some, but only made it barely past Ian before the redhead opened his nosy mouth again.

"Does it have to do with that gift?" Ian asked innocently. Obviously having an impeccable memory for things Mickey, almost a stranger to Ian, did.

Mickey spun around, dropped the creamer. The bottle rolled into the street and Mickey didn't bother looking at it, much less going after it. Ian watched it for a second, then stepped over and picked it up from the gutter. He reached it out to Mickey. Mickey grabbed it violently. His rage bubbled inside. And he knew it wasn't Ian's fault. None of it. But Ian was about to be the scapegoat before Mickey could even stop himself. "You don't know fuck all about my life," Mickey quipped, narrowing his eyes. "So don't start spouting off about shit you're not a part of. Bringing up shit you won't understand. Can it before you get ahead of yourself, _Ian_," he hissed. He looked the teen up and down, still sneering. Ian looked taken aback but only momentarily. Mickey didn't miss the hurt in the guy's eyes. Wondered at it long enough for it to actually soften the fury on his face. The heat behind his words. "I could be dangerous for all you know," Mickey said after the brief pause. Calmer that time.

Ian held up his hands in surrender. It was then Mickey saw the look of stress on Ian's young-looking face. Stress that was clearly older than these last few minutes. "Okay," Ian said, trying to sound casual yet Mickey heard the disappointment in the kid's tone,"it's dropped."

Mickey shifted in place. They stared for a few moments more. Mickey really wanted a cigarette. Smelled the smoke on Ian and his craving was worse for it. He took in a deep breath and exhaled slowly, closing his eyes for a second and collecting his thoughts. Still in a foul mood regardless of his efforts, Mickey cocked a snide brow at Ian. "You're an observant little prick," Mickey began, "aren't you?"

Ian merely shrugged. "Sometimes," he replied, crossing his arms. Mickey was shocked, even if only inwardly, when Ian openly looked him over. And it was a lingering stare, too, unlike Mickey's quick once overs. Unashamed. "It just depends," Ian said, eyes finally coming back to rest on Mickey's.

On what, Mickey wanted to ask, but didn't. He wasn't sure how to react now that he had a feeling that this kid just checked him out. Honestly, Mickey hadn't intended to come across like apparently he had. And yet Mickey couldn't figure out even for himself what the point in sparking up this strange acquaintanceship had been to start with. Mickey had just been bored that day he first spoke with Ian, and that was the god damned truth. Beyond that, Mickey had no idea why he'd let it go on. Yet his mouth got away from him again, obviously not on track with his thought process.

"What are you, on fucking break or something?" Mickey asked grumpily, half interested.

Ian cocked a brow. "I'm being sent home for the day. I pissed Kash off and he threw me out," he explained, sounding exasperated.

Mickey shifted the items in his arms, watched Ian closely.

"So," Ian scrunched his face, looking down at the crack in the pavement, worrying his upper lip, suddenly serious, "besides sitting in there," he pointed at the cafe, eyes moving up, but not meeting Mickey, "accepting suspicious gifts, and drinking too much coffee," Ian trailed for a second, then finished his drawn out question, "what do you do all day?"

Mickey frowned, watching Ian rub his freckled forearm awkwardly, unsure. "Sleep," Mickey said, honest. "Smoke too much, do drugs, and torment innocent bystanders," he went on, smirking suddenly because even that was the truth. What a life he lived.

Meeting Mickey's eyes finally, Ian knitted his brow, then grinned slowly. He looked like a cat for sure, Mickey decided. Had a joker's smile. Ian rubbed his eyes, still grinning, and pulled another loose cigarette from his pocket. He stuck it between his lips, then reached behind him on the windowsill, picking up a pack of matches. He struck one, cupped his hand around his cigarette, and took a few fast puff. Shaking out the match, Ian balanced the cigarette between hip lips and asked, "You know how to reassemble guns or anything like that?" He then pulled the cigarette away and blew smoke up.

Mickey figured that was a strange question. Yet certainly not the weirdest thing he had been asked. "Why?" he asked, his anger fading into faint curiosity. He rubbed his bottom lip, holding up the items with only one arm now.

Ian looked uncertain for a minute, then glanced at the cafe door. Eye back on Mickey after, Ian took a few steps forward and began walking. He looked back over his shoulder to Mickey, expectant. And Mickey didn't know why the hell he actually started after the ginger punk. But he did. Ian stopped walking when they reached the other side of the street, away from anyone in earshot. "My dad's gun is in pieces and I kind of need it to not be," Ian said, eyes darting around, paranoid. He stopped looking around and sighed, knitting his brow, chewing his lip. "I used to know how," he began, explaining as if Mickey had asked to begin with, "but I dropped ROTC and school when my parents went all to hell over my sister. I've forgotten too much to try it on my own."

Looking at him, Mickey knew that he didn't care why Ian needed the gun. Also didn't care why Ian couldn't fix the thing himself. And Mickey knew that he sure as fuck wasn't the right person for Ian to ask help from. For one, Mickey didn't do help. For two, Mickey hardly knew the kid outside of the cafe. Really he didn't know Ian at all. Except that Ian had a crack whore mother, was friends with a prostitute, got bullied, was previously in ROTC, had a sister, and was starting to give off gay vibes that made Mickey a little uncomfortable; not uncomfortable with homosexuality in general, but with the few fleeting thoughts running through Mickey's own mind. Yet still he didn't walk away, tell the guy to dick off elsewhere. And in fact, yes, Mickey knew how to disassemble, reassemble, and practically remake guns from scratch. It was kind of his skill aside from being a hitman. Came from watching his father do it every day up until the sicko died.

"What kinda gun is it?" Mickey asked easily.

"Compact revolver," Ian said, looking to brighten up. Hopeful. He took a drag from his cigarette, then reached into his pocket. And for a second, Mickey thought the kid was pulling out the gun, looked startled at Ian. But then Ian offered over a slightly bent cigarette and the packet of matches. Mickey took them, and Ian said, "It's a Magnum. Kind of complicated to fit the pieces together."

Mickey lit up and took a few drags, mulling over what he ought to do as opposed to what he was about to do. "Got it on you?" he asked, holding Ian's gaze.

Ian shook his head and said it was at his house.

And it was strange to Mickey, standing here talking with Ian like this. It felt more personal for reasons Mickey didn't care to figure out. Didn't want to think too hard on. Stranger still was how, by the time they had both finished their cigarettes, Mickey suddenly realized they had walked while talking. That he had absently walked in the direction of his hotel. He only realized this when Ian let out a laugh. Glancing up at his hotel for a second, Mickey felt a rush of panic. His chest beat quickly. Yet he didn't want to give away the fact that he lived at this hotel. Mainly because Mickey didn't want people knowing where he lived. Ever. It was too fucking risky. So he tried to hide his stir and make out as though he'd simply stopped walking for no apparent reason.

Ian rolled his eyes and looked around. "Shit," he said to Mickey, giving off an apologetic smirk, "I'm sorry. I walked us all the way to my house almost."

Mickey knitted his brow, confused yet grateful for the out. He followed Ian's hand as Ian motioned over to the street just off behind an El entrance. "I live right over there, if you want to see the gun," Ian said. "You don't have to," he quickly added, then trailed, "but since we're here."

Mickey licked the corner of his mouth and shrugged and said, "Ain't got shit else to do."

A short walk later and Mickey was standing at Ian's front door step, still holding his items. He figured Ian was slightly too trusting, bringing Mickey here. But then, after looking around the neighborhood and knowing the place the kid worked, Mickey realized it wasn't so much Ian being too trusting as it was Ian just not giving a fuck. Which was endearing because Mickey could relate to it.


	10. Ready Aim

Chapter Ten: Ready Aim

When Mickey had first left his hotel, the time had been noon. By the time he had left the store, it had been one in the afternoon. As he had sat his things on Ian's counter top, Mickey saw that the clock said one thirty. And now, as his phone rang and he was pulled away from watching Ian fire the reassembled revolver, Mickey looked at the screen and saw Rex was calling him for a third time today, this time it was at four o'clock in the afternoon. The temperature had dropped enough that Mickey had put his coat on. Ian hadn't, and Mickey could see the gooseflesh on his arms as the redhead aimed for the marks Mickey had drawn onto the upturned mattress beneath the El. He answered his phone, still staring at Ian's arm from behind.

"Okay, Mickey this girl is too serious about hiring you," Rex said before anything else, before Mickey could even comprehend. Rex expressed his concern over the issue.

Plopping down on the ground beside of the remaining liquored up drinks he and Ian were working on, Mickey ground his teeth. His knees were arched. He looked up at Ian again, just as Ian lowered the gun and turned around, looking downward, puzzled at Mickey. The kid's eyes were glazed over. His cheeks were flushed.

"What's the problem?" Mickey asked, averting his eyes from Ian and licking his teeth into the phone. He belched. He was slightly tipsy, if he was being honest. Ian had brought an eight pack of Joose out not even an hour ago, and that shit had kick to it, being as it was part energy drink, part malt liquor. Not to mention the two of them had been pounding back the cans like water. Started with eight and had only two now. Mickey was a big drinker, but even he was loose at this point. And Ian was right there with him on level of sloshed. Mickey picked up the bottle by his feet and took a swing. Decided he should start slowing down before chaos happened. Mixing energy drink and liquor actually now seemed like a bad idea to him. Right after he finished this can he was going to call it a day.

Rex sighed on the other end. "Are you drunk?" he asked flatly.

Mickey shook his head even though Rex couldn't see. Realized the flaw in his behavior, and corrected it by actually speaking.

"Damn, you're wasted," Rex growled. "I'll just have to talk to you later." He hung up in Mickey's ear.

Scowling at the phone, Mickey shoved it back into his pocket. "Fucker," he mumbled, taking another drink.

"What's wrong?" Ian asked, bending down to pick up his own can. He tipped his head back and finished it off.

Mickey shook his head, pulling a face. He smoothed out his features soon after and pointed over to the dingy mattress covered in black Xs in Mickey's sloppy scroll. "Nothing," he dismissed. "Did you hit it?"

"Most of them," Ian said, that stupid grin on his face again.

Mickey burped again, hit himself on the chest once with a fist. Cleared his throat and began standing. His world dizzied. He sat back down and stilled, eyes wide, blinking a few times. "The fuck is this?" he asked, looking at the tall can in his hand angrily. Legitimately pissed at his current sate of drunk.

Ian laughed. "These things are kicking your ass," Ian mused, watching Mickey's face too closely. Then added, "Mine too."

Mickey wondered if he also had a dopy look on his face. Probably. The idea frustrated him. He rubbed his lower lip, staring back up at Ian. The gun Mickey had reassembled right outside, on Ian's front stoop, was working perfectly fine. He'd shot it himself a few times before handing it off to Ian for reloading and whatnot. Ian had it dangling by his side. Mickey examined the gun, looking away from Ian's intense gaze. He scratched his head and wrapped his arms around his knees. Earlier he hadn't wondered why Ian needed the gun. Now that he was buzzed, more than actually, he did wonder. Nodding toward Ian's hand, Mickey asked why.

Ian crunched his can and tossed it away. He lifted the gun up, holding it with both hands and staring at the weapon thoughtfully. His lips parted slightly, brow knitted. "Just my mom," he said reluctantly, "she's home again and in trouble." He sighed. "The usual."

"This have to do with that pimp?" Mickey asked, suddenly needing to piss horribly. He looked around for a spot.

Ian nodded and dropped the gun back to his side.

Mickey stood up and walked over to the mattress, facing the wall. Unzipped and relieved himself. Over his shoulder, as he shook off, he asked, "You plan on killing him?" Like he had asked what flavor ice-cream Ian favored.

"No," Ian stuttered a little, shocked. "It's for self-defense."

Mickey turned around, straightening out his jeans. Didn't miss the look of dawning on Ian's face even through the drunken state. Opened his mouth to say something, then heard an echoing slap and the sound of a woman begging. His brows went up and Mickey looked in the direction of Ian's street, where the noise was coming from. Ian quickly tucked the gun down the back of his pants, eyes wide, and walked forward, now standing beside of Mickey, alert. The woman's voice was far away, so her words were lost to Mickey's ears. So was the voice of whoever was tormenting her. At first Mickey wondered if he was overhearing a rape. And Mickey could understand a lot of things, but not rape. Could overlook anything but that, in fact. So he looked over at Ian fast, reached out his hand, shook it impatiently, and told Ian to hand over the revolver. Ian's eyes went wide as he looked at Mickey. He mouthed something, but Mickey was too drunk to read Ian's lips. The voices grew closer. The woman was being dragged along. The man's voice was becoming more understandable. Mickey thought he recognized it from somewhere. He shook his hand at Ian again, glaring at the redhead in annoyance. Ian shook his head, a look of shock and realization overtaking his freckled face as he started walking forward, toward the voices. Mickey's heart jumped. His eyes widened and he started to go after Ian. What the hell was this kid thinking? Ian couldn't handle something like shooting a man. Mickey knew because he could always tell by looking into someone's eyes what the person was capable of. For instance, when he looked at himself in the mirror, he saw the devil. When he looked at Rex, he saw utter apathy. When he looked at Shatera, it was cowardice and sadness. And when Mickey looked at Ian, he saw naivete and innocence, yet a determination to prove himself. A horrible combination for a situation such as this. He took only two leaps forward, grabbing hold of Ian's elbow before the fighting pair came into view. Some blonde woman and Rodney. Ian jerked free and dashed forward. Mickey swallowed his stomach.

Yet, much to Mickey's relief and at the same time fear, Ian didn't pull out the gun. Instead he got in Rodney's face while grabbing hold of the blonde woman being dragged along the street. Her knees were bleeding. Mickey could see this even from the distance. Ian lifted the woman up, wrapping his arms around her and turning an angry glare to Rodney, who was standing a few steps back and chuckling. Mickey frowned at the scene, walking forward more to get a close look at the older woman in Ian's arms. He stopped walking when her face was in focus. Brows raised, Mickey blinked at the shattering similarities between the blonde and Ian. There was no doubt this was Ian's mother. She was lovely, save for looking methed out and freshly slapped around. Mickey's mom had been pretty, too, when she wasn't drunk. Mandy had looked like her. Mickey hadn't. Mickey looked like his father. And Mickey didn't know what Ian's father looked like, but figured Ian must have gotten lucky in the gene department because the punk was handsome. Even with the twisted look of fury and fear marring his face right now, the kid was all right looking.

"You look like I just kicked a puppy!" Rodney roared with laughter.

Ian's mother, whose name Mickey knew he'd heard but didn't remember, cried into Ian's shoulder, knees bleeding pretty badly. Ian pursed his lips and dug his hands against his mother, into her hair and on her shoulder, eyes set on Rodney. Full of fire. "I told you I would pay for what she took," Ian growled.

Rodney's laughter simmered. He wetted his lips and looked over at Mickey. Their eyes met for a second. And for that split second, Mickey felt his stomach bubbling over with anger that wasn't personal. One he hadn't felt in years. For a slit second, Mickey almost walked over and headbutted the guy. But he didn't. Because this wasn't his business and Mickey didn't want it to be. Rodney went back to pulling a disgruntled face at Ian and the mother. He pointed. "And you're late on making my run," he said to Ian evenly. "You quit taking care of your mama's debt and your mama has to pay up, boy. This world's not kind to thieves," he threatened. "I expect what's owned to me in a timely fashion, Ian Gallagher," Rodney spat.

"I have fucking bills to pay," Ian hissed, voice slurred only a little, overshadowed by his rage. "I can't go around pulling bullshit errands for you twenty four seven." His mother begged for Ian to shut up. Ian scowled at her, still holding on, and gave her a silencing stare. He then looked back at Rodney and said, "I always pay back my debts and I won't treat this differently. Unless you keep fucking with my mother."

"A you threatening me, kid?" Rodney asked, lowering his voice, serious. Face darkening.

Ian perked up, finally showing that fear Mickey knew was hiding under that hardening exterior. The blonde starting crying louder, this time begging Rodney to leave Ian out of this.

Rodney pointed at Ian, wagging his finger, face twisting. His face turned a darker shade of red, veins popping out around his neck. And when he barked out a string of curses, spit flew from his rabid mouth. "Your son put himself in this, Monica! And if he thinks he's big enough to make fucking decisions," he bellowed, eyes bulging, "then I'm going to treat him the same as I would a grown ass man."

Mickey shook his head, having heard enough of this. Rodeny was killing his buzz. And frankly, Mickey's day had been so shitty up until the point of Ian and his shooting at the mattress, that Mickey felt a little offended at Rodney pulling this stunt. Now this did feel personal. Probably only because of the way Mickey's fucked up mind worked. But still. Now that he had taken it personally, Mickey thought he had good enough reason to act. So he did. He reached down, picked up a full can of Joose, popped the cap, and then dug through his pocket for the matches Ian had given him earlier. Fast, while the three were squabbling, and before they noticed, Mickey grabbed a random piece of clothe laying about under the El, stuffed it into the can, and lit it on fire. Face calm, he tossed it at Rodney's feet. The man yelped, jumped out of the way, then turned crazed eye in Mickey's direction.

Monica squealed at the explosion that went out quickly, burying her face against Ian's neck. Ian just stared, mouth agape.

Rodney glared at mickey and took a few step toward him. "You're a dead man," he seethed.

At this, Mickey chuckled, lips going up in a cruel yet amused smile. "I'd stop approaching me if I were you," he told Rodney, laughter in his voice, "I'm extremely drunk and surly right now."

"I don't give a fuck!" Rodney yelled. "No one does that to me," he said, "especially a prepubescent looking motherfucker like yourself!"

Mickey snickered to himself.

Rodney made no pause to step up to Mickey. He stood several inches taller than Mickey, which was common for everyone. Yet he had a look on his middle aged face that said he thought Mickey would find the height difference intimidating. Mickey didn't. Smiling up, head tilted, Mickey chuckled. His vision was fucked because of his intoxication and honestly so was his balance. Which were the only reasons Rodney got in a pretty powerful headbutt. Powerful but off-course. He ended up hitting Mickey in the forehead instead of the nose. Because of that, Rodney fell back on his own ass, holding his head and groaning. Likewise, so did Mickey, sans the agonizing moans. It hurt, yes, but Mickey chose to laugh it out while quickly trying to stand. It helped that he was drunk to at least numb him up. So he actually had an advantage here. Or would have, if Ian hadn't rushed over and grabbed Mickey under his arms, pinning him back from Rodney. Rodney rolled over front ways, propped up on his knees and elbows like a dog, eyes squeezed shut tightly. Monica had finally gained enough sense about her to duck behind the mattress Ian and Mickey had been shooting holes through.

Still holding onto Mickey, Ian began shouting out a stream of what Mickey recognized as either an apology or a taught. Mickey wasn't certain, but though the comment might have been both. Ian's grip on Mickey's armpits tightened when Rodney pushed himself to a hunched over, standing position. The pimp held his head, scowling at the pair before him. Mickey figured his face matched Rodney's now that he had gone from humored to pissed off. Party because he had been stopped from assaulting the pimp while he was down, partly because Ian was pressed so close against him without permission. Had in fact touched Mickey. Mickey didn't do unnecessary touching. Fuck's sake, Mickey didn't even shake hands. The only time he didn't freak out over someone laying their hands on him was when Mickey was fucking. And even then he was apt to keep touching to a minimum. He jerked free of Ian's grasp, startled the youth. Rodney had turned his attention to Monica, asking her if she knew what the repercussions of this incident would be.

Finally freed, Mickey pivoted his arms, glaring at the redhead behind him. Ian searched Mickey's face, looked guilty. Didn't make much of a difference as far as Mickey was concerned. He was fucking livid with Ian. And by now, his intoxication level had risen even more. Mickey had never been a friendly drunk. Had in fact put a man in the hospital while too drunk, the last time. Fortunately the man hadn't pressed charges. Probably because the guy had been terrified. Probably because the guy had been Rex. And Rex was a glutton for punishment. Rex had gotten the brunt of Mickey's rage more than once. The first time had been the most brutal though. Rex had told Mickey later, after his jaw had healed and he'd been released from the hospital, that Mickey became possessed when he was drunk. And maybe Mickey did. It was a good thing Mickey wasn't entirely gone yet; he still had enough wits about him to recognize his coming fit, and shoved past Ian. Ian huffed out as Mickey hit against his chest when passing. Then the kid turned fast, face wide and hand out. Mickey stopped walking long enough to look back at Rodney and send across a death glare. Told tell the pimp that the bastard was real god damned lucky that Mickey liked Ian's face too much to rearrange it. After he'd left the scene, barely about to walk without tripping over his own two feet, Mickey thought he hadn't worded his threat quite right in many ways. But Mickey was too dazed to think much. And now his head was starting to really ache. He stumbled back into his hotel room, passing out at the foot of the bed, not quite all the way in it.


	11. All Nighter

Chapter Eleven: All Nighter

Mickey woke up, arms raised over the foot of the bed, the rest of him slumped in the floor. Woke up, sat against the bottom of the bed, legs sloppily out in front of him, and stretched his torso by popping his back. He looked over at the clock. When Mickey had gotten back to his hotel room, it was probably about five in the afternoon, give or take, and now it was midnight. So in one day, he had single handed fixed and then fucked over his sleep schedule. A-fucking-gin. At this rate Mickey figured he may as well get an honest job as a midnight radio DJ.

Rubbing his face, Mickey struggled to rid himself of his grogginess. He sat still, trying to piece together the events leading up to his passing out. Doing so didn't take much effort since Mickey hadn't been totally fucked out his mind, rather just a little too drunk. He remembered perfectly well throwing a liquor bomb at that pimp. Remembered why even. Well, mostly. Mickey remembered Rodney dragging Ian's mother around by the scruff of her neck; remembered Ian charging over; and remembered Rodney thinking everything was all in good fun. Thus he remembered getting angry. Though the reason for his anger was a little muddled now. After all, the incident hadn't really been of his business. So it wasn't so remembering the physicality as it was emotion. Mickey frowned, chewing his bottom lip, and stared at the dresser intently.

Mickey groaned. He really wished that he would have turned down doing Ian any favors, like mending a gun. And teaching the kid how to fucking fire it. Or actually, that hadn't really been the reason for the two of them shooting at the mattress. Truth was, Mickey had offered it up as shit-and-giggles because he was bored and Ian's company wasn't half bad. Now he wished he wouldn't have. Mickey was never social. Why he had picked then, he wasn't sure.

His mouth tasted stale. He stood up and went into the bathroom to slosh around mouthwash. In doing so, he leaned onto the sink, arms flat out to the sides, and stared at his reflection. His scruff was pretty much a full on beard at this point. Mickey spit then wiped his mouth his the sleeve of his coat. Then spit again because he could still taste the mouthwash. It burned his mouth, made it water. So he stood there and spit until the harshness left him. Clearing his throat, Mickey went back into the room to search out the items he had purchased that morning. And froze in the bathroom walkway, crossing his arms. Before going outside to work on Ian's revolver, Mickey had sat his stuff on the counter-top. Which was probably where it remained. Mulling this over, Mickey sighed. He had two choices, go buy another razor tomorrow and tough out his itchy face, or trudge back to Ian's house and collect his shit. If Mickey could even remember which house was Ian's. And probably the guy was asleep by now. Mickey scratched his cheek. The kid had probably taken a few punches and was sleeping soundly right now.

Except that Mickey couldn't stop picturing the redhead laying unconscious under the El, his cracked out mom sitting beside of him, rocking back and forth, apologizing for causing so much trouble. All while Ian slowly slipped into oblivion. Not that Mickey wanted to play some hero, but he felt somewhat responsible for the scene he was picturing. After all, he had pissed Rodney off worse than the pimp had seemed initially. And then Mickey had left Ian to deal with the aftermath. Honestly, even Mickey knew that was kind of shitty. So he walked out of his hotel room and made his way to Ian's street.

When he passed under the El and didn't see a body, Mickey felt relieved and stopped for a minute, almost turning around. Yet when he looked forward at the house tops, he figured since he had already made it this far, he may as well see if Ian's lights were on.

Upon seeing the house with boarded up windows and a missing front door, people practically hanging out of the front door, stoned out of their mind, Mickey immediately recognized Ian's house. Directly beside of the crack house. The two houses practically shared the same yard. In fact, if one wasn't looking close enough, one might think both homes were crack houses. Especially since a good majority of the junkies were crowding not only the obvious slum, but Ian's yard as well. Kind of reminded Mickey of his childhood street in some sick way. Except then it hadn't been crackheads, but his father's many associates and enemies. And police. Some druggies, but very few. And the somewhat normal folk who had mostly remained in doors. For a second, as he stood there looking up at the light coming from the second floor of Ian's home, Mickey wondered how it was possible for this neighborhood to appear worse than Rosa Parks Blvd. Mickey's hometown was a cesspool . Yet somehow this place looked worse. Maybe it was because of how hopeful the neighborhood looked. Like it was trying. Yet failing. But the fact that this place seemed to put in effort made it worse. Because Rosa Parks hadn't ever tried. Why bother trying when you've already been condemned to hell and told reprieve would never come?

A shiver caught Mickey and he shook it out. The temperature was dropped enough that the thin jacket Mickey wore may as well not be on his body. He pressed his hands deeper into his pockets and debated on how to go about getting his razor and creamer. Another light switched on and this time it was the one just in front of Mickey, beside of the front door. Standing at the foot of Ian's stood, Mickey ruffled his own hair, deep in thought, then shrugged and and stomped up to the door, banging.

Before he'd knocked rudely, Mickey heard footsteps and a muffled voice. As soon as he banged, everything was quite. Probably Mickey's knock had been confused with that of the cops. It was almost identical.

The door creaked open after a moment's pause. Slowly. Mickey took a step back, brows knitted into his usual permafrown. Once Ian recognized him, the worried looked he'd had vanished, and he opened the door halfway, leaning into it. He looked over Mickey, confused. "Forget something?" Ian asked, a slight harshness in his tone. He was pissed.

Well of course he was pissed. Being as Ian was probably going to act unfavorably, Mickey thought he would beat the kid to the chase. It was always best to have the upper hand. Even in small time situations.

Mickey sniffed, rolled his shoulders, and thumbed his bottom lip. "Yeah," he said, unfriendly, "left my shit in your kitchen."

Ian furrowed his brow, lips down-turning slowly. He stood up straight and shut the door. The hair on Mickey's neck stood up. His eyes bulged and his blood boiled. Fucker had slammed the door in his face. He was about to bang again, fist in motion, what Ian jerked the door back open and extended out Mickey's things, placed into a plastic bag that wasn't Mickey's. "Here," Ian said.

Mickey grabbed the bag, not saying thanks, and took a backward step downward to leave. Ian's face had softened, but still showed offense. Mickey noticed quickly Ian's freshly bruised cheek. "Hope you hit him back," Mickey commented before he could catch his tongue. His eyes darted around awkwardly.

Ian raised his brows, relaxed. He stepped outside and shut the door behind him. Looking over at the crack-house, Ian shook his head. "Wouldn't have done any good. I'd have just made the situation escalate," he said, putting his hands into the pockets of his blue pajama pants. His striped sweater frumped up around his forearms.

Mickey shrugged. "Sometimes you have to light something on fire to set order in motion," Mickey said, meeting Ian's gaze. There was a long silence. Mickey finally looked down at the bag in his hand. He bounced it once, frowning thoughtfully. "Sorry about skipping out," he mumbled. "I'm a fucking mean drunk, though. Nothing good was coming from that," he admitted.

Ian's face moved quickly. And Mickey almost missed the way the redhead seemed thoughtful. Almost. "It's cool," Ian finally said, wetting his lips and shrugging. "I'm used to Rodney's shit ever since my dad ran out."

Clearing his throat, Mickey let a silence fall between them. He wasn't sure what to make of the situation. Wasn't sure how to respond. Wasn't sure why he was even still standing there. Because he should have left after Ian handed him the bag. Should have, but didn't.

Ian broke the silence eventually, thanking Mickey again for fixing the gun. And after giving Ian an awkward, "Whatever. No problem," Mickey nodded goodbye and left.

The rest of the night, Mickey spent shaving, then phoning Rex and discussing whatever it was the guy had attempted bringing up earlier in the day. Halfway through the conversation, Mickey wanted to hang up, find a time-machine, and undo the phone call all together. To live in ignorance. But it was too late now and that wasn't possible, anyway.

"What do you fucking mean she's a cop?" Mickey growled into his receiver. He had his feet propped up on the foot of his bed and was sitting in the hard chair offered up as seating in this miserable room. He hadn't used it until tonight. Usually the chair was Mickey's counter top; where he kept his coffee maker and creamer. Now those things were in his floor, beside of the dresser. He shifted his socked feet around, staring at the hole on one of the toe ends. He needed new clothes. New everything, really.

Rex rambled in his ear. "I'm telling you, Mickey," he fretted, "when I met her, I had no idea. I found out when I was doing my usual research. But she's for sure a copper."

"What are you," Mickey chuckled, "a fucking gangster now?"

There was a silence on the other end, then Rex scoffed. "But seriously, this needs to be taken care of," he said, sounding like he was taking a hit off a joint.

Mickey wanted a smoke. And not nicotine. Although he ended up settling for a cigarette, pulling one out of his pants pocket, sticking it in his mouth, digging out the lighter, and burning one down.

"You can't kill her," Mickey said simply. "If she's a cop, that means someone is already looking into you. She disappears and you're the first ones they come after," he went on, bending down and stubbing out his cigarette on the chair leg. After he was finished, he propped his feet up again.

"Yeah no shit," Rex grumbled. "So what do we do?"

"We?" Mickey asked, then said, kind of harsh, "I don't fucking know you past this phone call, until she's out of the picture."

Rex was quiet. He exhaled slowly, loud, understanding. "All right. Gotcha," he finally said before hanging up.

Mickey tossed the phone onto the bed and leaned back in the chair, the chair legs coming off the floor. He put his arms behind his head and counted the strange wallpaper on his ceiling. Of frogs and sailboats. Weird, just like the rest of Mickey's life and all things in it. He sniffed, stretched, and looked over at the alarm. It was almost eight in the morning. He had been on the phone for the entire night, not all of it spent talking about Rex's cop. Most of the things he and Rex had talked about were Rex's new baby, Mickey's inability to be anything but a snide asshole, Mickey's alcohol problem, Rex's addiction to cocain, the break Mickey needed to take, Rex not being able to afford it now that he was a parent, Mickey not giving a fuck. And for some reason, Mickey had mentioned the handful of people he had met around this neighborhood, and how somehow they were sucking him into their miserable lives. How Mickey was considering moving just because that fact alone. Rex called Mickey a loner. Mickey said it was true and that if he could have it his way, he wouldn't even have Rex around. Which was a lie and they both knew it, but said nothing. Mickey more than tolerated Rex half the time, for reasons both men didn't understand. Only after all of that did Rex and Mickey speak of the cop.


	12. Fucked

**A/N: Wow it's been way too long. I've had awful writer's block. So bad that I had to force out that last chapter, but I think I'm back now and good to go. Sorry about it, guys!**

**Also, no Ian in this chapter, sorry. This one is the building block for future major Mickey/Ian stuff. It's a necessary evil for the plot and Mickey's character development.  
**

**Okay, so enjoy!**

Chapter Twelve: Fucked

Since that night under the El, Mickey's sleep schedule had been insane. He had been a creature of the night. From noon until eleven o'clock at night, Mickey slept. His body thought it was sick, probably. He read once that sleeping too much will get a person in the habit, thus making him or her sleep more. And it had to be true, since Mickey was sleeping eleven hour days and staying up literally all night. Usually he only required about five hours of sleep. So today, instead of getting drunk and high in his hotel room while watching television, Mickey decided to actually get up and go out. Hopefully to stay awake. It was one in the afternoon, and by now he was usually passed out.

As he walked out of his hotel, squinting away from the sunlight, Mickey wondered why he was really such a recluse these last few days. Keeping a low profile was one thing, but disappearing entirely to himself was another. Still. Mickey couldn't afford to get caught. Fuck. If he did, he would sever the rest of his life behind bars. Or maybe be given the death penalty, given that two of Mickey's murders where in states that elected to allow it.

He sighed heavily and sucked on his cigarette. Today was warm enough to wear a tank-top and shorts. Mickey finished off his smoke, and flicked it aside as he trotted across the street to get a breakfast that wasn't stale pizza and Vodka.

Rex was under investigation. Therefore, Mickey was constantly on edge, ready to bolt southward. He knew it was only a matter of time before someone snooped deep enough into Rex to sniff out who the mechanic was working with. As of now, the police knew that Rex and one other were working as hitmen in the Detroit and Chicago areas. They knew, but only just. There was no solid evidence to really tape Rex down. Because when the undercover bitch went to Rex, Rex spoke in code, as was regulation. But still, the fuckers knew and it was only a matter of time before one of the detectives did his job right. And Rex was fucked. Already he was a dead man. Thus, so was Mickey, if he wasn't careful. He couldn't work and felt like a dog in hiding. Fucked. Fucked. Fucked.

Fucked worse is for some reason Rex talked.

Sitting in the cafe, drinking his cup of coffee, brought from home, Mickey winced at the knots in his gut. He leaned forward on the table, sighing heavily.

Fucked. So fucking fucked.

Rex claimed he had no idea anyone had been looking into him. However, he did say that he now had a nice idea of what might have happened. Fucking Alice. Who was six feet under now, kid in tow. Alice had likely gone to the police right before biting it, and when she'd disappeared, the cops came snooping because they knew because she'd told.

So fucked.

Fucked so bad if she'd already ratted mickey out and the police were just biding time. As of now, it wasn't clear.

Mickey's last call to Rex had been from a payphone right across the street from the shop in Detroit. After the police had left. That was two weeks ago. It was Spring now, and Mickey had only a grand left from his last hit. He needed a way to earn dough fast. Too bad he only knew one trade. And no way was Mickey about to go looking for his own hits. That's how hitmen got caught. He knew because that's how his uncle ended up behind bars when Mickey had been eleven. No. Mickey needed to find a new right arm. Fast. But he certainly couldn't go looking for a partner until the smoke blew over. Which would be who knew when.

So fucked. Mickey was screwed bad this time. Though, to be honest, Mickey had been waiting for this time to come. He had been a hitman for six years without so much as a hicup. But everyone's luck runs out at some point. Mickey just hoped this would blow over fast, and that he would remain under the radar.

He took a sip of his coffee, eying the back of the pimp's head. Rodney and Shatera had waltzed in a few minutes after Mickey. Shatera's bruises were finally clearing up. Rodney seemed in a decent mood.

Mickey glugged half of his cold coffee at once. Doing so gave him a chill. Gooseflesh popped across his bare arms and exposed calves. He shook it off and sat his coffee aside for now. Thinking. Trying his damnedest to come up with a way to get money. All he knew was hits, theft, and drug running. None of which he needed to be involved in until the case against Rex grew cold. So deep in thought was Mickey that he nearly missed out on the eye opening conversation going on between Rodney and Shatera.

"Fairy boy got what was coming to him. Stepping on my toes isn't what a motherfucker ought to be practicing, especially when he's barely out of diapers and still suckling off his mother's tit," Rodney said through a full mouth. He swallowed his food, the went on to scoff harshly, "Let this be a lesson to him."

There was a pause, then finally Shatera piped up, voice hushed and timid, unlike her usual tone, "That ain't fair, Rodney," she almost whispered. "And you know Ian ain't got no mama to mooch off of. Monica don't do Ian anything but heartache. All she does is spend his money on crack. He done been taking care of himself since his daddy disappeared." She sucked in a deep breathe, let it out, then said, as if knowing she was screwed for saying it even before hand, "He didn't deserve a hospital bed for being gay, not for nothing. He's a good kid, and you done him wrong. He has it hard, trying to live and pay his sister's hospital bills. Now he'll have his own to add on."

Mickey knitted his brow, chewed his bottom lip and tried not to react beyond silent awe. He turned his face, eyes downcast to the windowsill. No way had he misunderstood the context of the conversation. Rodney had used Ian's sexuality as an excuse to beat the kid bad enough for hospitalization.

Mickey had been wondering where Ian fucked off to this past week.

Beat for being a fag. A fag. Not that Mickey hadn't suspected Ian was gay. He'd gotten that vibe the night Ian invited Mickey to fix that gun. Although Mickey had wondered then if he was only paranoid. Apparently not.

Gay. The word brought a heaviness to Mickey's chest. A personal conflict that he refused to acknowledge. Quickly he squashed the pain, only to be met with a foreign, bitter bile in his throat and stomach. A building aggravation and need to lash out in some way or another.

"Shut the fuck up, bitch. I didn't say you could flap your herpes ridden cock sucker!" Rodney growled through another full mouth. "Eat your god damned pancake and get back out there!" he bellowed, food probably flying from his mouth as he pointed toward the door violently. "And quit looking so sad just because you're thinking about Monica Gallagher and her unfortunate kid," he said, calmer as he swallowed, "you'll scare off the business with that puss face." He slammed down his silverware and stood up quickly, storming out in a huff.

Mickey kept his eyes on his cup of coffee. Could tell, though, that Shatera's eyes were on him. After a minutes, she spoke, and Mickey wanted to rip her tongue out. "You're like, his friend or something?" Shatera asked, inflection in her accusing words. Silent quotations around the word friend. She'd said hardly anything, hadn't actually come out and accused Mickey of sucking Ian's dick, but had done enough damage with just the inflection.

Mickey bit down on the inside of his cheek and tasted the blood. It calmed him very little. "No," he rumbled, glaring holes through his Styrofoam cup. Shatera's stare felt as though it burned his skin.

"Oh," Shatera said, thoughtful. She waited a few minutes before she went on. Fooling Mickey into believing the torment was over.

His stomach felt sour.

"Kind of thought you was," she eventually pressed, "you being here a lot and all. I seen you two under the El shooting at that mattress. Plus that night you staid here," Shatera trailed.

"You're here all the god damned time too," Mickey hissed.

Unfazed, Shatera said, "Yeah cause I work around here and it be fucking cold out sometimes. Plus a girl's got to eat. You don't eat, White-Bread?"

"Of course I fucking eat."

Another long paused passed between them, and then Shatera's thoughtful, "So you ain't his friend then?"

Confused and pissed, Mickey widened his eyes and took slow, deep breathes, still glaring at his coffee. He considered taking a drink, then leaving, but opted against it just as Shatera informed him that she and Rodney were Ian's neighbors. "And I care?" Mickey snarled, fists turning numb under the table

Shatera was quite for an extremely long amount of time. Mickey heart raced and he finally grabbed his coffee, beginning to drink, ready to leave once he finished it. Fucking hell. He wasn't sure why he was even sitting in here today.

"You like apples?" Shatera suddenly asked, just as Mickey put his lips to his cup.

"The fuck?" Mickey spat, putting his cup down and finally looking up, into Shatera's big, curious eyes.

She picked at her food. A single pancake that she couldn't possible have taken more than two bites from. Sliced, baked apples were placed atop the pancake sloppily. "They always put apples in this mix," Shatera commented, poking at the fruit. He lip was freshly busted and Mickey hadn't noticed until now. "Tastes like shit," she sighed.

Knitting his brow, Mickey felt his bubbling rage subside a little. "Yeah well, most of their food tastes like shit," he said, rude still.

Shatera shrugged. Her shoulders were bony beneath the zebra printed tube-top and jean vest. She held Mickey's gaze, saying, "The coffee's all right."

Mickey huffed out a scoff. "Not really," he said, honest. The coffee here was shit. He'd made better coffee with powdered baby formula, and yes, at one point that had been a last resort.

"Know who has good coffee?" Shatera said rhetorically. She smiled brightly, pointing to Mickey's cup, the added, "The bar down the block. You been ever?"

That pain in Mickey's chest returned with a vengeance. Panic began creeping up on him. Mickey suddenly felt a need to prove his own sexuality to himself. Shaking his head and looking Shatera over, Mickey knew he wasn't attracted to the whore. But he could fuck her, and clearly that where she was going with this entire conversation.

"You wanna?" Shatera asked Mickey, in regards to the coffee at the bar.

A smirk played across Mickey's lips, and he ignored the sour gut weighing him down. "I thought he put you back on street duty?" he asked, unclenching his fists and propping his elbows on the table.

"Rodney don't pay attention half the time." She said, playing with her food and staring down at her plate meekly. "Not on days like this."

Decision final, Mickey stood up and walked the few steps over to Shatera's table, standing beside of her, arms crossed. She looked up at him. Silent. And finally she stood. She straightened out her red skirt, slipped on her flip-flops that she had taken off beneath the table, and met Mickey's stare with unabashed knowing. This wasn't about coffee. They left together without a word.

Later, around three in the afternoon, Mickey sat against the headboard of his hotel bed, a cigarette dangling between his lips as he lit up. The white bed-sheet fell loosely around his bare hips. He had one knee raised, and after he lit his cigarette and took a drag, Mickey laid his arm straight across his knee. He pointed at Shatera as she sat on the foot of his bed, back to him, pulling her top on. She watched him in the blacked-out television screen. He blew the smoke out, ready to speak, when Shatera cut him off. Her voice was hesitant. "You don't got to pay," she said. As if she thought she'd read his mind. She hadn't. Not entirely. Mickey wasn't going to tell her where to find money, if fact, he had been about to tell the bitch not to be expecting any. And so he told her as much. When he'd finished, Shatera pivited on the bed, one arm propping her up as she slipped on a single flip-flop. She frowned for a second, then sighed and gave a small grin. "That's nice of you," she said. Mickey could tell she meant it, and was confused. Was about to ask the whore to elaborate, but didn't get the chance, when she said, "Treating me like a person and not what I am, I mean."

"Oh yeah?" Mickey said, taking a drag, blowing the smoke to the ceiling, and looking down at her, his chin tilted. Feigning half interest. Even though he was honestly intrigued with the woman, for once.

"Cause I know you know what I do," Shatera said, slowly standing up and walking over to her other shoe. As she put it on, she continued saying, "You got to hear what Rodney and I talk about. You was there that night with Ian at the cafe. And you got eyes. Mickey, you ain't stupid."

No, he certainly wasn't stupid. Before Mickey had dropped out of high school to take up his uncle's profession, Mickey had been told by the counselor just why Mickey needed to actually stay awake in class and stop bullying everyone before he was kicked out. Because apparently he was smart or some shit. Just didn't give enough of a rat's ass to put in even the slightest amount of effort to school work. But his background would never have allowed for such activity. And yes, he had known Shatera was a whore. Duh. Everyone in that cafe knew what the bitch did for a living. It was obvious to even the nutty homeless man. Hell, Mickey had been tempted to double wrap. He took another drag. Looked her over. "I think you mean what _he_ talks about," Mickey finally said casually, hoping to skip the conversation of prostitution all together. "You never talk, except for today."

Shatera gave a laugh and ran a hand over her braids. "Yeah, he's gonna be pissed later," she said, still laughing. Mickey could tell she was scared, but only a little. She was probably used to Rodney beating the hell out of her.

Mickey saw Shatera out after that, once he had stood up and slipped on his boxers. After she was gone, Mickey found it increasingly hard to keep himself away. He'd been awake for more than twenty-four hours now. So he gave in and crawled into his bed, closed his eyes, and attempted to let sleep have him. Yet for as exhausted as Mickey was, he couldn't sleep. His mind raced through thoughts of Shatera and that crack house. Rodney. The whole neighborhood just next door to his hotel. Ian. How it must be for the kid to grow up in such a place. To live there, practically alone at his age. Because Ian seemed so fucking normal. Unlike Mickey had been at that age. Mickey had seen so much to harden him, that by the time he'd reached sixteen, Mickey could have withstood the most violent prison. Ian still had that innocence in his doe eyes. Mickey had lost that after kindergarten for Christ's sake. His thoughts remained on Ian for a while. For someone who seemed so normal, it shocked Mickey just a little to know that Ian was a fag. But then, he guessed fags were sometimes hard to spot. And did being a fag really mean someone wasn't normal? His father had drilled that into Mickey's head at a young age. Just like he had drilled in the supposed fact that black people were Satan's spawn. Which just wasn't so. Mickey had fucked many a black women. Sex was just sex. So long as the Ian didn't go around waving a flag with a limp wrist and a woman's lisp, Mickey supposed it was normal as being straight. For someone people. Hell at least Ian probably got something out of sex. Got some enjoyment. Groaning in frustration, Mickey flipped over in bed and buried his face into the cold side of his pillow. Jesus. Mickey hadn't gotten enjoyment out of sex since the first time he fucked a girl up the ass. He froze mid thought, stomach sinking. Squeezed his eyes tightly together, growling into the pillow. Wondering just what the hell that said about him. No way was he a fag. Perhaps he was simply asexual.


	13. Its Only Paranoia

Chapter Thirteen: Its Only Paranoia

Two days later, Mickey spilled a cooking pot of coffee on his arm. Burned the piss out of himself. Usually, Mickey handled all of his own injuries, but this particular burn required medical attention; even Mickey could see that. So he went to the emergency room and sat in the waiting room for at least an hour before his name was called. And then sat in his room, in immense pain, for another hour before someone came in to address his burn. By the time he was finished, Mickey saw that it was nearly five in the afternoon. He seethed to himself after bitching at a nurse for his too long wait, and then grabbed the discharge papers from the cunt's hand harshly. To make his point more clear, Mickey stomped by the billing office in the first floor hallway, where he had to turn in the paperwork, only to tell the large old man behind the window that this hospital could suck Mickey's dick. They wouldn't see a dime. He leaned over the counter as he hissed this in the man's face. Arm stinging horribly, despite the numbing agent.

"Do as you please," the walrus looking asshole blubbered. "A collection agency will be in touch," he added.

Fat chance. Mickey had given fake everything to this place. Mickey began spinning around, the laughing words "Fuck you" falling from his lips, papers falling to the floor where he planned on leaving them. And came face to face with a familiar freckled boy. The smile dropped from Mickey's lips, replaced with raised brows sand slightly opened mouth, revealing his two front teeth. Ian's expression almost mirrored Mickey's, only with amusement his joker's grin.

"Hey," Ian Chuckled.

"'Sup," Mickey greeted, looking down at the papers floating between them. The while that he had stared at Ian, Mickey had a great look at the damage Rodney had done. The kid's nose had been broken. He wore a bandage across it, and had bruises under his eyes and across the tops of his cheeks. Had stitches on the bottom corner of his mouth. Was wearing long sleeves, despite the weather, likely to cover all the bruises. He walked on crutches and had a cast up to his left knee. Had a brace around his midriff. Probably due to a back injury that wasn't too major, but must be a pain in the ass. Poor fucking kid. But Ian's hands were bruises and scabbed. So at least he had fought back. Of course, Mickey didn't remember seeing bruises on Rodney. In fact, Ian was built buffer than Rodney, and honestly the teen looked like he might have a hell of a punch. So Rodney had most likely surprised Ian. Had ganged up on the boy with someone else. It made sense.

"Can I help you, sir?" the clerk called loudly over Mickey's shoulder, to Ian.

Ian knitted his brow, rolled his eyes a little at Mickey in regards to the clerk, a smirk on his childish face, and stepped up to the window. Mickey stood back, watching as Ian paid a bill under the name Fiona Gallagher. Then paid a lesser amount under his own name. Ian was then berated for not giving the full amount due.

Mickey found himself biting his tongue.

"At least you _are_ paying, though," the clerk grumbled, peeking up at Mickey from the corner of his eye.

And there it went; Mickey's tongue leaped from its hiding place. As Ian turned to walk away with his receipt, the clerk looking smug, Mickey sneered and let off his mouth. The clerk sat taken aback, and Mickey then turned to leave.

Mickey's father had always told Mickey that he took after his mother's sassy mouth. When Mickey had been younger and had been slapped around for it, he held back. Now he simply let it rip. Quick wit made for a strong mind. He'd heard that somewhere.

As he walked out of the building, Mickey came to realize he had unconsciously walked slow enough for Ian to follow beside, clumsily. Had in fact, held the fucking door open without thinking. Mickey stopped in front of the smoke free campus sign and began digging through his pocket for the half empty pack of Camels and his lighter. Ian found this amusing, and it wasn't until Mickey heard the teen snickering that he looked behind and saw the huge sign. He side smiled, cigarette dangling from his mouth as he lit up, cocked a brow, and said, "Fuck 'em."

Grinning at Mickey, Ian wrinkled his eyes and shook his head. After Mickey took a couple drags, feeling Ian's eyes on him, Ian finally shifted his crutches and nodded toward Mickey's bandaged arm, asking what happened.

Mickey glanced down at his arm, then shrugged. "Burned the shit out of myself trying to pour fucking coffee," he said, disgruntled at the mere memory.

Ian, eying Mickey's cigarette, remarked, "You take it hot now?"

A few seconds passed before Mickey registered Ian's remark properly. He felt his face heat up and wanted to bolt. He blamed his misunderstanding on the news of Ian's homosexuality and nothing more. Clearing his throat, he said, "Desperate times." Because fuck, he really was strapped for cash. Was actually budgeting for once. Which came to mind especially, as Mickey dug back out his smokes and handed one to Ian.

Ian thanked Mickey and lit his offered cigarette awkwardly because of his crutches.

Mickey stood there quietly, smoking his entire cigarette and looking at Ian's face. Finally he said, "You look like hell. How's the other guy?" Mickey usually wasn't one for small talk, but since seeing Ian's hands, he wondered what had actually gone on. He hoped to probe it out of Ian, without seeming obvious.

Looking slightly self-conscious, Ian squirmed in place, placing a hand over his right cheek, thoughtful, clearly thinking about how fucked up his face was. He sighed and a piece of hair flapped above his eye. "Fine," he admitted, admirably. He looked down at one of his discolored hands, clenching and unclenching his fist. "I barely even made a scratch back," he said and shrugged awkwardly around the crutches. "I might have been able to fight them off, but I honestly didn't see them until I took a hit to the temple," Ian explained, downtrodden. "And by then it was useless," he sighed.

And even though Mickey had already eavesdropped on at least part of the guilty party, and knew the reason behind Ian's attack. Even though it wasn't his business, he asked if Ian had seen the fuckers' faces.

Ian stared for a second, sucking his busted bottom lip, uncertain looking. "No," he eventually said, but then added, "not that I needed to. I pissed off the wrong person. You were there when it happened. As I recall, you literally helped fuel the fire, then bounced."

Mickey nodded, flicked the cigarette butt he'd been holding idly, and licked his teeth slowly. "You need to stop taking shit from that guy," he commented, stuffing his hands into his pockets and trying not to look as if he felt a little guilty.

Snorting, Ian dropped his finished cigarette to the ground near Mickey's. Watched it burn out. "Right," he dragged, bitter. "Kind of hard to do, since Rodney has his thumb on the trigger to my sister's—'' he cut himself off, eyes widening for a second at his almost slip. "Rodney's like a fucking dirty penny that I can't get rid of," he hurried to say.

"Sure you can," Mickey said casually. "Fucking toss the penny, man. It ain't hard." he wished Ian would finish his earlier sentence. Mickey's interest was peeked.

"Easier said than done," Ian mumbled, rubbing the back of his neck.

Mickey decided to drop the chit-chat. He shrugged. "Whatever you say," he said, trying not to stare at Ian too intently. He was now paranoid that he was doing so. However, he could feel the redhead's eyes on him, and knew that it wasn't paranoia. Couldn't be. Ian looked curious, and likely it was because of Mickey's behavior. Mickey wanted to drop this fast. His cleared his throat and nodded toward Ian's legs, toward the crutches. "Those are a bitch," he said, stalling and unsure why. Mickey thought he'd settled this situation with himself. Apparently his tongue and feet hadn't caught up with his thought process. He rubbed the back of his neck with one hand, the other still in his pocket, and said,"Look, people make situations out to be a lot more complicated than they actually are." His eyes darted around. Fully aware that the advice he gave was hypocritical. Mandy had once told Mickey that he was the the worst for making everything out to be more complicated than it actually was. And she wasn't wrong.

"Well," Ian sighed, "trust me when I say if anything, I'm under-exaggerating."

Finally Mickey looked back at Ian, chewing the dead skin on the back of his gnawed lip. He maintained eye contact for a few silent moments. Ian's eyes looked conflicted, like he wanted to ask something dire but couldn't bring himself to spit it out. The redhead opened and closed his mouth a few times, then rolled his eyes at himself and grinned.

Mickey knitted his brow, frowning. "What?" He asked gruffly.

"Forget it," Ian said, still grinning.

After shrugging, Mickey tried to swallow down his once again grumbling stomach.

Ian sighed, this time clearly hearing Mickey's hunger. And probably had the last time. Mickey was fast to assume Ian's earlier struggle for words had to do with the next words that left his mouth. "I'm going for dinner. If you're hungry, I could use a designated guide," Ian joked, wiggling his crutch and smirking.

Mickey's stomach flipped. His face ached with need to decide on a suitable expression. Part of Mickey blanched at the idea of going for breakfast with Ian, mainly because of the stigma Mickey was now placing with being alone in public with a kid who everyone in this neighborhood apparently knew was a queer. Another part of Mickey was starving and found Ian's company pleasant. Easy to relax around.

He cleared his throat and buried his hand deeper in his pocket, the other swinging by his hip awkwardly. Scrunching his nose, he pushed his shoulders back, licked his bottom lip, and said nonchalant, "Sure, why not." Then snorted, a smirk gracing his face, and added, chidingly, "You paying?"

Ian laughed lightly, "Doubtful," he said as they turned to walk across the street. "Something tells me you make enough money," Ian added casually, then stepped onto the crosswalk, hobbling and looked back over his shoulder when Mickey wasn't beside of him any longer. His brow creased and he grinned back at Mickey, standing beside the stop sign still. "Are you coming?" He asked loudly, over the sound of traffic.

Mickey removed his hand from his pocket and chewed the side of his thumb, frowning. His cheeks burned once again, his chest flipped, sunk, and stung nervously. He hated that every comment Ian made fell to the gutter side of Mickey's mind now. That hadn't been so before. Not really. Huffing, Mickey caught back up with Ian. He had a feeling that the punk knew exactly what he was doing with those comments. Or maybe Mickey was just being paranoid again. Just like maybe he was being paranoid about Ian's knowledge over Mickey's career field.


End file.
